Paranoia is Not Part of the Control Group
by Pizzadone
Summary: One poor man takes a gamble, spinning a hamster wheel for a prize beyond compare; a game in which he has unknowingly thrown his chance at eternal life on the line. He's become the independent variable in a series of equations that will not only determine his fate, but the fate of hundreds of murderers and innocents alike. Rated for language and violence.
1. Awake

**Author's Asides:** So I read some of TVTrope's fanfic recommendations. I'm a troper myself so** I hope to **start getting up somewhere on that list. I figured I needed to** step up my game**, instead of writing the first thing that comes to mind, I'm starting to buckle down and get a better understanding of the Portal universe. **So let's have some fun with this!**

**A big shoutout to deviantart user metaknightepicness12**, for use of the sketch she drew. I couldn't comment directly on the deviation but I sent a note to his/her current account to see if he/she doesn't mind. **I DID NOT DRAW THE COVER IMAGE!**

**So without further ado,**

**Paranoia is Not Part of the Control Group  
**

* * *

**Fandom Based Intellectual Speculation Sphere Alpha**

**Or in Layman's Terms, Book One**

Just like every other day, a certain man with a messy mop of black hair wakes up to the sound of birds chirping. The serenity with which his body rises from the covers is only matched by the slow journey of the rising sun. Gently, the puffy marshmallow clouds make their way across the azure expanse of sky they call home. Douglas Rattmann, rising from his slumber, barely notices these phenomena as his minds slowly activates. He begins taking stock of his surroundings, as per usual. An inventory exercise, if you will. It has always helped him clear his mind and fully wake up.

His mattress, with its navy blue sheets, is sagging a little on the broken bed frame. He's been meaning to fix that, sometime soon, perhaps. His pillow, with a nearly threadbare printing of Michigan J. Frog, seems to smile gleefully up at its owner, encouraging him to start the day. The nightstand to Doug's right is much less perky; the dark-stained wood contrasts heavily with creamy beige walls. The alarm clock perched atop the stand flashes the numbers 05:36 in a murky teal color, similar to darkened mist.

The nightstand, tiny as it looks, holds all of Doug's pertinent possessions. He has one photo of him with his late mother; his collection of playing cards covered in quick scribbles, all of his clothing, a key ring and a small metal pocket watch. The photo is not in color, but it is sepia toned. Doug took it with one of those instant cameras, and he has treasured it since childhood. In the photo, he is holding a pinewood derby car. He made it for the Boy Scout race, but he had ended up chickening out at the last second. He still has the car... somewhere. The closet, or rather, the black hole barely contained by two doors, is the most likely location of this lost memory. His mother is smiling down at him, her eternally gentle gaze hiding the madness of their lives.

The silver watch is an heirloom from his father, nothing marvelous, just something to keep time. It is smooth to the touch, though no longer accurate, as it has not been wound in months. Doug has never really known his father, since his parents divorced when he was very young, the two haven't been close. He still doesn't know his father's last name, and now he'll probably never know. A little bit of curiosity has always nagged at the back of his head. The stack of cards beside it, haphazardly rubber banded together, is a reminder of one of the few joys from his young life. He used to have a massive collection of these things, spanning several binders and many a cardboard box. He never played with anyone, but sometimes... Well, there were reasons he kept these cards specifically. Their drawings depict very important milestones in his life. He tries not to think too deeply about their meanings anymore, the psychiatrist has told him to start getting rid of them, as his attachment is "unhealthy."

_Screw doctors._

Groggily, Doug gets out of bed. He doesn't bother with his hair, rushing immediately into his kitchen. His sense of balance is still a little off this early in the morning, and he stumbles around the room looking for food. He grabs a box of something, who cares what it is, and pours it into a bowl. He spills some of the flaky grains over the side and on to the table, but doesn't care. The bleak light streaming in through the window gives him a tiny headache. He fills his bowl with milk and eats without interest.

_This can't get any blander,_ he thinks with disdain. _If only this were a little sugary or chocolatey or something, that would help me wake up._

He stares down into the milk. In his eyes, it instantly fades to a dull brown. His mouth opens and waters as he delicately takes a spoonful in. The liquid has obliged to his request, instantly becoming a sugary delight. His eyes glaze over with sadness as he thinks back to his childhood. His poor life in an orphanage has only recently ended, and if there was ever any chocolate around, it was snatched away by the quicker, chubbier children. Now that he is eligible to be his own guardian... he's still too poor to afford much more than the necessities. It's a hard life.

Doug finishes up with the bowl, drinking the remaining milk in one gulp and standing momentarily in blinding darkness. His bloodshot eyes are starting to become more attentive as he replaces the milk in the battered fridge. A whiteboard is attached to the door, by a set of six magnets. Doug is tempted to draw but knows that he doesn't have time today. Yawning, he slogs back through the hall and steps into the bathroom, his feet dragging and producing a squeaking sound on the linoleum tiles.

The water takes a long time to heat up. He simply waits for it, staring at his reflection in the mirror, thoughts adrift.

_What would that face say, if it could talk back of its own accord? Is it happy, or depressed? Is it malicious or benevolent? Does it prefer the blue shirt or the grey stripes? Is it contemplating its demise, or the demise of thousands, or perhaps no one at all? Maybe it's thinking about the ladies? _

His lips curl into a rare smile as he looks at this handsome devil. He shoots his fingers off like little guns, before sobering up and checking the water temperature. His mood drops again as he makes himself mentally aware of the labored life he's been eking out.

Doug steps into the shower, allowing the cool water to wash away not only his fatigue but also his anxiety. He's been working longer and longer shifts at his place of business, a small coffee shop up the road. For some reason, lots of people in lab coats have been stopping by lately. They're all strange folks, speaking to him in rushed tones yet trying to draw out conversations for a long as possible. Some of the things they say are troubling, too. He is getting fairly creeped out, but what's he possibly going to do about it? They're keeping money circulating. He doesn't have much of a way with these science-y types, anyway. Oh sure, he's a geek, but whatever it is they're doing, it doesn't interest him... much.

_OK, that's a lie. They _are_ pretty interesting. Space is... well, it's cool. Sometimes, I wish I could have gone to the moon.  
_

Doug turns off the water and gets dressed in his uniform. It's just a hunter green shirt with a white printed logo, but hey, it's comfy. He pulls on a pair of grey pants, grabs his keys, watch, and heads out the door. He fingers the smooth silver surface of the watch, thinking about what his father must have been like. He slowly gets lost in his imagination as is muscle memory carries him out to the curb of his apartment complex, to his beat up Camry. His eyes return to reality as he steps in and turns the ignition over.

But he's forgetting one thing.

His morning dose of anti-psychotic pills is still sitting in their plastic container on the kitchen counter.

And little does he know that this tiny, insignificant, ephemeral mistake is going to cost him his life.


	2. Black Coffee Beans

Doug drives down the cracked pavement of the parking lot, scanning the area for a nice spot tucked away in the shadows. He sees one under a flowering pine, and he stops in the spot, his tires perfectly aligned with the fading white lines. He takes this as a good sign and gets out of the car.

A heavenly smell is escaping through the door; the owner, who happens to be his only coworker, is baking blueberry muffins. Doug rushes into the door just as the shop clock hits 6:15. The store opens in 15 minutes.

Douglas sighs as he pins his name tag to his shirt, grabbing an apron and settling down behind the counter. He doesn't like working the register, not at all, but his psychiatrist has told him to try getting a job working with people in order to get over his fears. This was as low profile as he could get.

He turns to the coffee machine and starts making the regulars' drinks. He's an exceptional barista in that regard; he always remembers people's favorites. The less he has to talk, the better.

He makes a cappuccino with extra whipped cream for a mother with two kids, a venti caramel mocha for some snooty business executive he's never spoken to, and regular iced coffee for a rotund man named Carl. Along with that he makes a few of the recent recurring scientists' favorites, the strongest coffee the machine can make with as much sugar and cream as possible. It's a little contradictory, but it's the best combination to keep people awake. His mind drifts to what exactly it is that these people need so much energy for.

Maybe they are building combustible lemons, he thinks to himself. He's overheard _that_ conversation several times over. It's always the same; "Cave's crawling up my back to get his hands on explosive citrus!" or "We need those fruit C-4 kits ready by the board meeting, just in case he asks again."

He never questions the scientists' ramblings beyond the confines of his imagination. That's his role in life, to listen, never to contribute, never to be a part of the big picture, only a minor element in the grand scheme of things. Beyond his hypothetical speculation, Dougas Rattmann is nothing. Maybe this reality is some kind of joke; a running gag. He's overheard a lot of strange things in this place before that would support this hypothesis.

Doug finally finishes with the coffee, ready to start another arduous day.

Cue disaster, in the form of the first man in the door, decked in a white coat splattered with something purple.

He's fuming as he accepts the coffee from Doug. His eyes are practically bulging out of his head from all of the pressure he's putting on them. His neck veins, dear god, if they popped out anymore they'd have to be classified as Zeppelin balloons. And to make matters worse, he's in the mood for conversation.

"Mornin' Doug. Gimme the usual, and make it snappy!"

Doug hands him a decaf mocha as fast as humanly possible, accepting the credit card and swiping faster than the man can blink.

"Heh, you're a quick one," he replies. A thoughtful look crosses his brows, erasing a margin of his anger. Doug smells whiskey on the man's breath. The man leans in. "You know... You look a lot smarter than just any ol' coffee man. Don't got that... modern swagger about ya. Your synapses must not be firing on all twelve cylinders while you're stuck in this place. Heh heh..."

He mumbles something, perhaps to himself, perhaps to Douglas. Etiquette requires the schizophrenic to be courteous, but right now Doug isn't interested in the ramblings of a hungover drunkard. He has his own disastrous thoughts to contend with. He switches topics.

"What's that that you've got on your coat, sir?"

"Oh, spilled some ink, spilled some ink," he says, waving the question aside. Doug notices how the man's brows subconsciously furrow at the mention of the splash of color. Doug has a feeling that the mysterious stain isn't _actually_ ink, judging from his micro-expression. The man continues his drabbles.

"You're a quick lad... How do you like being stuck behind this counter, Dougie boy?"

Doug's face reddens but he tries to let his nervous anger pass. He makes every effort to whisper his response so his boss doesn't hear. "To tell the truth, sir... it kinda sucks."

The man laughs loudly. "I KNEW IT! Aha ha ha ha... heh hya..."

Doug grimaces inwardly as the man wipes his nose with a napkin, taking the seat right next to the counter. Now he'll have to put up with this all day.

"Got any family?"

Doug's facial features soften. "No. My mother was killed in a car accident a long time ago.'

"That's a damn shame... Pop was with her, right?"

"No. They divorced when I was little. I never even knew his name."

The man's gaze sobers. His entire body relaxes, but not in a peaceful way. More or less, his body calms down out of respect for the hard life this poor child is living. However, the lack of interest in social life coupled with his lack of close relatives indicates one major thing; expendability.

Douglas Rattmann is the perfect test subject, easy to lure in and eager to please.

"Tell you what, you're quick and all. I'll make you an offer. You like science?"

Doug thinks about the question critically as someone else comes through the door. It's a man in a grey suit, striped with delicate hairline cracks of black thread. It seems like the suit is a spider's web, tangling the wearer in its arachnid clutches. The man wears sunglasses even though the sun is barely up. Though his hair is disheveled, it is short and black, like coffee beans. Doug barely notices him out of the corner of his eye but the hairs on the back of his neck raise up a few millimeters.

"I... g-guess I like science. I was pretty good at it in school."

"You like robots?" The man asks, his tone even more excited, yet still repulsing because of his intoxicated demeanor. Doug is starting to get curious about this questionnaire even if he doesn't like the main focus: his private life.

"I used to be into spaceships when I was little, and tech stuff is cool, sure..."

The grin on this man's face could break mirrors with sheer hideous glee. The only reason Doug hasn't recoiled in horror is because he is too busy paying attention to the suited man. The new guest is staring at the menu, and at Doug simultaneously.

_ Is he going to order anything or stare me into oblivion?_

Doug turns to the man again, his thoughts stumbling over themselves in an attempt to respond to the other stimuli around him.

"Well, Dougie Boy, have I got something for you. You'll like it!"

Doug's unwanted and paranoid curiosity is back full force. "Something for me?"

"How would you like to see cutting edge technology firsthand? We're having an exhibition soon. We're supposed to invite family to see it, but hell, you're special Dougie. Wouldn't it be great to get out of this shop for a change? Young man like you, cooped up at work all day long."

Doug sighs with relief. He half expected the man to offer him some kind of research position, right there in the place. He nods his head, not even caring about the implications.

Right now his attention is focused back on "Mr. Spider Suit."

"Would you like something, sir?" Doug says to the bespectacled man.

Nothing happens, save the bout of confusion running a marathon across "Captain Drunkard's" face.

"'Scuse me? I've got my coffee, what're you on about?"

Doug's smile of relief fades as he realizes that this man isn't real.

"Oh... Um... Just..." He scrambles, looking for a response. "Just curious if you wanted a muffin. On me?"

The man isn't convinced. "I don't see any muffins. I smell 'em, sure, but you weren't talking to me, were you?"

Doug sighs. "It's... It's nothing, really." He notices how his teeth are chattering a little. There are voices in his head, suddenly doing their damnedest to make themselves known to the whole world. Doug's body slowly starts to convulse.

The man isn't buying it. "Something's up, kiddo. You can tell ol' Craig what the deal is."

Doug shakes his head slightly, calmly walking into the kitchen, mumbling a quick excuse and praying that "Craig" won't push it.

"B-boss?" he tentatively shouts.

A heavyset woman in her forties comes bustling out from the back. The motherly type; she immediately knows Doug is scared of something. She rests her thick, sweaty mitts over his shoulders. The warmth of the kitchen and the kindness emanating from this post-midlife crisis woman is slowly relaxing him.

Then he sees a dead body in the corner. It's face is grey and unidentifiable from advanced decomposition, though its limbs twitch with rigor-mortise. Bloody pools of goop surround the thing, ringing it in a bolge of death and bile.

"It's... H-h-ariet...tt..." His teeth chatter despite the kitchen's warmth as he turns to the side. Doug is still fresh out of high school, at around 19, and "the boss" instantly takes pity on him. She's a no nonsense person, but she cares about his well being enough to know what's going through his head. Combined with the fact that he's a on orphan, and she has an instant instinct to baby him.

"Shhh, shh, it's ok. I've still got that bottle of... Zia... Oh, Zia-something back here. I'll go get it, just calm yourself down. Take a load off, Doug, it'll be OK."

Doug nods, resting on a plastic tub. He's afraid of breaking it but the floor isn't sanitary enough to sit on. He can see the pus and grime and maggots wriggling all around and-

_Wait, no. No no no NO! They aren't real! Snap out of it, Doug!_

"They aren't real, they aren't real... You don't see it, you don't... S-see... AHH! SHUT UP!" He shouts. The voices are yelling in his ears, screaming for him to grab the closest knife and stab himself brutally or seduce his coworker or just kill that drunkard outside.

His sudden movements shatter the plastic lid of the container and he falls in, the sound of plastic and his screaming echoing through the kitchen. The commotion makes Craig curious, and he stuffs his head around the counter to look through the kitchen window. A small line of three has built up in the barista's absence, and they are all trying to get a look at the commotion, too.

Doug runs further back in the kitchen, accidentally hitting some pots and causing more of a ruckus. He takes the back exit out, forgetting his boss and his pills and his dead end job to just cry out to the world.

He flops down on the pavement, trying to contain his massive headache. The voices alternate between screaming and giving him strange images. He's never really dealt with his schizophrenia except in isolated circumstances like this, and typically,_ it ain't pretty._

"The voices, the voices!" He shouts. He buries the noise with his sobs.

He sees an apparition of his mother, trying to calm him down. He looks up into her grey eyes, the tears on his face freezing with the notion. It feels so real, so true, that he starts believing it.

Then the body curls itself inward, becoming an amorphous, rusty brown blob in midair. He gasps as she bursts, spreading the liquid everywhere, accented by flakes of rust and grime. The popping noise makes his ears ring. His pupils shrink to specks. His skin tingles as the wind caresses his bare, pale arms. His shivers and shakes and sobs uncontrollably.

His boss comes out of the door, her maternal image causing him to scream a little. Is she going to burst into flame, or devour his left shoe, or is she real?

She hands him two pills without a word and he swallows them, biting his own hand in his eagerness.

The rusty shrapnel slowly vanishes. His ragged breathing calms down. The voices quiet their torrent of cries. Slower than molasses, Douglas Rattmann stands, wobbly and uncertain.

"Thanks, Harriet."

"It's alright, Doug. I'll take care of the customers, you just calm down for a minute."

"I... I put the regulars' coffee out... J-just so you know..."

She nods wordlessly and heads back in.

Doug grabs his shirt sleeve and wipes his face off. His heart rate gradually settles down.

"Boy, I sure mucked up my Monday. Of course I picked today to forget the Ziaprazidone." Doug stays where he is for a few minutes until he hears the sound of footsteps.

Suddenly Craig comes out from around the corner of the building.

"You alright, Dougie?" He says, genuinely concerned for his well being.

"Yeah... I'm fine..."

"Then would you mind explaining _WHAT THE HELL THAT WAS!_?"

Doug cringes, almost tripping over his own two left feet. "I-I'm s-so s-s-sorry I scared you, s-sir," he squeaks out. "I... I have schizophrenia, I forgot to take my pills this morning," he blurts without thinking. He just feels so cornered and out of it that he has to confess.

Instantly Craig forgets any semblance of anger. His mind's gears are churning out responses at a rapid pace, processing this information in a few milliseconds. The pieces of this boy's life connect together in a web not unlike the suited illusion from earlier.

The first thought that comes to his mind:_ Put Douglas Rattmann in a personality core._

"Come on, bud, it's OK... Tell you what, go tell your boss you need the day off. I've got something you'd probably like to see back at my office."

Doug shakes his head gently, in no mood to argue. He can't just abandon work, not for a complete stranger.

_But a complete stranger who is taking time out of his day to comfort me? A _drunken_ stranger, though... what good is his friendship? On that note, what good is mine?_

Craig knows that he needs Rattmann there, and he needs him there NOW. He won't be taking no for an answer. His body language does its level best to communicate with polite urgency.

"Come on, please? It'll make you feel a whole lot better."

Doug decides that he's had enough of being pushed around all day, by voices, by this guy, by his illness... by everything. Fate hasn't been kind to him, robbing him of the chance to get a real education, his parents, his sanity, even his chances at having a social life. He'll never have the chance to be truly happy. He'll never get anywhere if he doesn't start sticking up for himself.

But he's too much of a coward to do it.

"Umm... Sure..." he stutters, hoping that Harriet can handle the shop for a while. There's no sense in setting off the man even further, and he can make this quick.

He nods his head delicately, as if convincing himself, and walks into the parking lot with Craig. Craig grins, appearing to all the world a happy, normal man who just so happens to have a degree in nanotechnology.

His life is just a little more... _complex_ than that.


	3. The Stairway to Hell

Doug gets settled in Craig's car. He wonders if it's a good idea to be doing this at all, and slowly but surely the odd enormity of his faith in Craig becomes apparent to him. Why does he suddenly trust this man, when all he's done is creep Doug out?

_He comforted me... he seems to actually care. Look at him, all happy and cheery. He must be trying extra hard to make me feel better. I'm overreacting... I bet people do this kind of thing all the time. Not that I'd know, since I never go out... this could be a good experience for me._

Craig begins driving up the street, passing the rest of Doug's small town. The schizophrenic looks at the big signs that attract people from up the interstate. The words blink and stare down at him, almost as if scolding him for his irrationality. Of course, he knows he's only imagining it. It's just the pills taking their time to kick in, nothing major. Doug shudders a little in his seat, and realizing that the air conditioning vent is pointed right at him, he tries to direct the stream of air leftwards. It is stuck.

"I'll get that," says Craig, lowering the intensity of the fan with a barely stifled laugh. Doug catches the noise, but assumes it to be the vent.

No sense in perpetuating any more paranoia, right?

As they pass the mostly closed specialty shops of "La Plaza Azul," Doug examines the car a little more closely. It's a nice BMW with tan interior, smelling faintly of paint cans. Everything about it is sterile and clean, a little off-putting, but mostly cozy. All of Doug's money couldn't pay for a car half as nice.

They start passing wheat fields. Doug takes a deep breath, imagining the plants waving in the wind as if to say hello. He's feeling much better already, and more curious as to Craig's surprise. What could be so intriguing that the man invites the first stranger he talks to to see it?

"We're really not far... See, I work at Aperture Science. It's just up the road here."

Doug has no idea what Aperture Science does, he's never heard of it in his life, but he has a feeling the surprise will involve robots. Maybe had he actually gotten an education, he'd be able to work here.

_I'd barely be able to qualify as an intern for a _janitor_, considering the salary of this guy. Maybe he's some hot-shot executive?  
_

The car takes a swift turn down a dirt track that Doug has never seen before. It blends in almost perfectly with the landscape. In the distance, he notices a chain-link fence and a tall, white building. Two walls slope together, before forming a tower pointing straight up. The tower extends too many stories up to count. They are hard to see from this distance, hidden by a light fog that is settling gently over the rest of the road.

The drive turns into an actual paved area, and Craig drives the car right up to a huge parking area previously hidden among the wheat stalks. Doug is faintly reminded of a tumor; because the facility just seems to rise up from the ground unnaturally and end just as quickly. It leaves no other impact on the area. There is a light forest stretching close to the side of the facility, and the grove of trees blocks any further vision.

Craig parks, making sure to point out the little sticker on the corner of the windshield. "If you don't have one of these, you'll get your car towed to kingdom come. I'll get you one if you want to come over for that exhibition I told ya about."

Doug nods and smiles, stepping out of the car as Craig locks it. He doesn't plan on coming to any exhibitions anytime soon, in fact, he's incredibly eager to get on his way. An overpowering sense of dread is layering on top of him, forcing him to stop, forcing him to worry.

_I'm being paranoid... There's nothing wrong... he isn't laughing at me... This is just a friendly invitation to see the man's work...  
_

Craig guides him over to the building's entrance. There are glass doors and glass panels stretching up the front face of the building. Doug can almost see what's in the top floor! He smiles as genuinely as possible... which makes him look queasy. Craig stiffens, hoping to God that Doug won't suddenly get cold feet.

"Erm... you all right mate? Need a drink of water or something? Oh, I know... it's just that impressive!" Craig snaps his fingers, providing the excuse for him. "Yeah, yeah... I was a wreck my first time in here. Nervous as all get out for my interview. It went real well, his nice guy named Greg did it. Oh, what are we doing, just standing about when there's science to be done? Come on, Doug, let's not keel over from excitement!"

Craig's attitude isn't contagious. Doug gulps and steps through the doorway after his guide.

And his stomach _drops._

Right away, the facility's descends into a massive mess of metal, sloping off an unimaginable distance, so far that there is a blue mist covering the area and choking his sense of balance. Whatever his queasiness was earlier, it pales in comparison to the current atmosphere.

Doug wastes no time upchucking his breakfast all over the floor. He barley notices the floor's construction as he watches the substance pour downward. The floor is a rusty grate, so most of it goes straight through. The area still reeks, though, and Doug's face is paper-white.

"Aww, what?" Craig sighs. "I didn't think you were gonna vomit... This puts a real wrench in things. I'll go get a janitor or something."

Craig rushes out, leaving the confused and frankly terrified Doug to stare at his own vomit. He closes his eyes and takes a seat right there on the tiles. Nevermind if the floor is sanitary; he can't look at that abyss for any longer than necessary. And judging by how the entire facility is navigated by the many catwalks running over said abyss, he's going to have to face it again.

Every part of his body screams in protest as the initial vertigo fades. He runs outside and plants himself on the grass, immediately disgusted with himself and the interior designers of Aperture.

* * *

"Dr. Preston? I can't understand why you'd need to see me and a _janitor_ of all people, on such short notice, but this had _better be good._ I was in the middle of something_ important!"_

"Trust me when I say it, this is big. But first..."

Craig looks at the janitor's name tag.

"Mr. Jackson? There's someone who vomited all over the lobby. You'll need to clean that up."

"Yessir," comes a thick country accent's response. Richard Jackson, a mild-mannered old fellow, obediently moves to the exit to fix the problem.

"Alright, Atlas, here's the deal. I've found us someone perfect for the cores. Perfectly expendable; he works at the local coffee shop. I've been talking with him for a few days now. At first, I didn't think he'd amount to anything, but today's little discovery takes the cake. Well, a metaphysical cake, sure, but it takes the damn cake."

"Craig, slow down, slow down! You've found indicative core traits?" Atlas' tongue trips over itself in an attempt to process the information and respond quickly enough.

"I'm pretty sure he'll qualify. Man's got no family, no friends, completely antisocial, all he wants to do it stay at home and... I don't know, maybe sulk around the place. Parents are long gone, no siblings, no nothing, no criminal record, no college degree... Just him, and his mind. Ahh... that beautiful, beautiful mind... He's a completely blank slate, save his mental state." Craig's eyes glaze over as he considers the possibilities. He's got a very clear vision in his head of the things he can do with Douglas Rattmann.

"So? There's probably 20 million other people like that in the world. What makes him so different?" Atlas asks, disinterested but still curious.

"He just so happens to have... wait for it... _paranoid schizophrenia_."

Dr. Atlas spits out a response. "WHERE IS HE?! GET HIM IN HERE, _RIGHT NOW_!"

Craig takes his time, catching Atlas by the sleeve. "Hang on, Doc. He's the one who vomited. We'll need to be gentle with this guy, not let him know what we're up to. We need him to get interested in Aperture. I told him we had an exhibition of sorts coming up, and well... we will need something soon for it, right?" He winks, hoping that Atlas' connections can make the project happen.

"Why go to the trouble? Just lock him up in a closet somewhere, that'll only hype up his paranoia more for the procedure."

"We need to wait until the technology is perfected. You heard Cave, with everyone pouring all their efforts into GLaDOS, the cores have taken a backseat. But even so, once GLaDOS is up, cores will be very valuable in the open market. Not only would something so interesting as access to perpetual paranoia hype the market up, it can be invaluable to the study of schizophrenia itself. We can cure it, for God's sake. Think about the possibilities, psychiatrists could study him as much and as conveniently as they'd like and shut him off when he becomes a bother, without any risk. And we can shut up the goddamn hippies, nobody has to know a human was put in there to begin with. Something like this _can _and_ will_ save the company."

Atlas is starting to see the finer points of Craig's plan. He nods. "Offering him a job is too suspicious... we'll do the exhibition, just like you said, maybe get someone else in here too while we're doing it. I'll run the idea by Cave, see if he cares about advancing the core placement. He'll like the concept of having a backup in case GLaDOS fails, just like a real CPU. Don't worry, I know how to pull the strings on that man. You just get him here, I'll do the PR. God knows we need it anyway."

Craig flashes a grin and a thumbs up, then runs back down to the lobby. It smells like stale coffee and bile, though Richard Jackson is hard at work scrubbing the floors. His hair is snow white and disheveled, but he's a little bit younger than he seems. Only a few wrinkles line his face, yet he looks like a hardened explorer of some kind. Only one thing is missing from this picture.

Douglass Rattmann, Craig's newest person-of-interest, his saving grace and the company's future... is _gone._

* * *

Craig storms out of the building, his eyes burning with fury. He'll get his hands on Doug, yet!

Doug leaps back a little in shock, greeting Craig as gently as possible. "Excuse me, sir... Are you alright?"

Everything melts off of Craig's face as if he is butter in the microwave. "I'm quite alright, I was worried sick you had run off. It's real easy to get lost in there, and I wasn't sure if I'd be able to find you before... w-well, I found you!" He says with a chipper grin that puts Doug a little bit further on edge.

_This sense of fear... my mind... what is it trying to tell me? What have I missed? Did I... I can't leave this poor man hanging, can I? Alright, Doug, say something..._

"Alright, I'm just fine. What was it you wanted to show me anyway?"

"Oh, well... just found out, thing I was gonna show you is actually classified. Tried to stop one of my superiors to ask about it, and apparently," he clenched his teeth and fists, "can't even talk about the damn thing. But hey, there's still the exhibition to look forward to. I'll drive ya back to your house if you like, but I'm afraid we can't do much more here today, unless you want to explore the lobby area."

Doug's stomach gives a quick protest, and so do the controlling faculties behind it. "I'll pass... Can you take me back to work?"

"Oh yeah! Totally forgot! Your supervisor must be worried positively sick! Don't worry, we'll get you back faster than a jackrabbit on a hot, greasy griddle on the fourth of July!" Craig ushers Doug off and towards his car as fast as the poor man's nauseous legs will allow.

_It's child's play from here, _thinks Craig._ Just get him fired and he's completely ours_.

* * *

**Author's Asides: The base design I have in mind for Aperture looks like Fermi-lab. I've been there IRL and the building is really impressive.  
**

**I actually did pass out in their front lobby, too. Thankfully I didn't vomit, but I have vomited in other important building lobbies. Apparently whenever I'm somewhere cool my body decides to screw it up. It was really bizarre. If you want to hear the story, just PM me about it. **


	4. Mind Your Head

**Author's Asides: The current year is 1979, Doug is 19 and fresh out of high school, and I'm using modern terms to describe this stuff... barista, for example, was not around at the time. Whatever, I'm sure nobody reading this has the urge to relive the 70's and its many vocal fads. If you do, well, that's not my call, and I'm sorry for insulting "the good times." Maybe I'll jazz up the plot's vernacular consistency some other time.  
**

* * *

When Craig pulled up at the coffee shop, it was all too soon. It turns out that Doug had vomited up his Ziaprazidone on the way out of Aperture, and is now experiencing the unfortunate side affects. He is doing his best to hide them further, but Craig is a much smarter man. He sees the sweating, and the shaking, and the shiftiness in poor Doug's eyes. He almost catches himself smiling before realizing that Doug is still human, and that whatever he is seeing terrifies him.

Doug gets out quickly, almost loses his balance, and then runs right in through the front door, spittle flowing at the edge of his lips. Completely unaware that he looks like a loon, he dashes in the back room and grabs a glass of water and the pills. He almost overdoses, but manages to keep his head level enough to only take the two he needs. A giant, gelatinous creature next to him melts into a shelf of leavening bread. He finally starts to relax, seeing the world around him as normal as ever. A menacing kitchen knife sits back down on its cutting board as a previously floating orange drops back to its place in a bucket of fruit. He sighs with relief.

Harriet bustles in, and seeing him safe, promptly gives him a vicious slap to the cheek. "Where in God's creation WERE YOU?! We had a line of 20 people or so, all asking if the normal barista was OK, and I was not only understaffed, but worried for your safety! What possessed you to take a two hour break without telling me?!"

Doug hangs his head in shame. He doesn't have much of an argument to put up, except that a customer had dragged him into it, but he doesn't want to get the man in trouble. Last year, as a senior, he'd witnessed too many cases where buddies ended up separating because they ratted each other out, be it for pot, women, or grade-hacking on the school's notoriously useless network. Doug himself is guilty of the last one, he was good at it. It was so easy, a computer always does what you tell it to do, nothing more and nothing less. It wasn't super fun but programming had its perks.

As Harriet finishes up her tirade, Douglas looks up from his shoes to apologize. Harriet harrumphs, announces that she'll dock his pay for the time, gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder and a nod towards the counter. At least six people are waiting for their late morning coffee break, Doug included. He fetches the frothing beverages for each customer until the line pares down to one.

A bright eyed man is looking intently at Doug's skull. No, not his eyes, but his hairline. Doug's head cocks, and as if by magic, the man's head follows, rocking him out of his observatory trance.

"Can I help you at all, sir?"

"Oh... um... this is... ah... Douglas... yes..." he mutters, collecting himself. It made Doug feel good to not be the only one incapable of speaking to others.

"Do you need a few minutes to decide?"

"No, no, I'm not interested in any coffee..."

Doug is puzzled. "What do you need, then? A pastry or something?"

"No, no no. My coworker... ah... Let me start over..."

The man nervously adjusts his bow tie, takes a step back, and lets out a deep breath. "I'm Dr. Atlas Bowdoin. I come from a line of German Physicists. I work at Aperture."

A small frown crosses Doug's face, for all of one picosecond. "Do you know anyone named Craig?"

"Oh yes. I came on his behalf, in fact. See, he's a little tied up at the moment, so I came in with some flyers and a message for you." Dr. Atlas hands Doug a small stack of light blue papers, emblazoned with a rounded logo. There ware words printed on the papers, but in a font too small for Doug to see at a glance. He'll read them later.

"Craig had a message for me?"

"Dr. Preston and I have been working on a very... hush hush project," he says, lowering his voice further. "I understand he tried to show it to you?"

"Well, he almost did... but then I... uh... well, I threw up on the lobby floor..."

"Oh, my... so you didn't get a chance to look? Well, that's good for my department, but I'm sure a very unwelcome distraction for that ever so curious brain of-" Atlas cut off, choosing his words quickly. "Oops, I'm sorry if I sound so awkward. I'm a little on the rougher side of the English language."

"It's fine, really," Doug says. Despite having taken his pills, the nagging feeling is back. Something is off about this man more than his speech or mannerisms.

_Calm down, Doug, he's doing his best. He might not be that different from you, after all!_

Doug's weak smile does not trouble the strange man, er, Atlas Bowdoin. In fact, it motivates him to keep talking. "I'm sorry you didn't get the chance to see the project firsthand, but Craig and I have a plan to get you in there. Er... I mean, a plan to let you see something else cool in action... wait... um... what I'm saying is, we have something else to show you.

"You see, we've been working on a quantum tunneling device. It has the power to create two self contained rifts in space that you can travel through. Portals, if you will. We've been aching to get some skilled testers in on the project, but with Black Mesa's influence on the rise..." Atlas clenches his fists as if crushing the name with his knuckles.

"Well, Black Mesa is getting in the way. Nobody seems interested in little old Aperture anymore. We haven't had any testers for our products in a while and most of us employees aren't cut out for it. We need good, young men like you to start getting into the project. So here's our idea; come on in for testing!"

Atlas gives a big grin, flashing his yellowed teeth up at a horrified Douglas. Even others in the room had overheard the conversation and could tell that it was weird. Some of the people leave in a hurry, hoping to avoid confrontation with the odd man, and the rest try their level best to ignore the pair.

If there was any blood left in his face after he'd been told it was possible to cut a rift in space, it all disappeared when Doug was told he could go through the facility's lobby, again, to actually use said device.

Atlas realizes that he had just made a huge mistake, probably shattering any hopes of getting Doug in on the Aperture action. But maybe, just maybe, his message from Craig can return the poor man from his horrified expression and ghastly thoughts.

"There's one other thing, a direct message from Craig himself. He even recorded it for you."

Atlas pulls a metal cube from his coat pocket. The device fits neatly in his palm, and he sets it on the counter. A little boy sitting with his mother across the room takes interest and strays a little too far from her gaze to stare at the device.

"Sorry, Doug, I'm stuck in the office with some forms right now," comes the excitable voice of Craig Preston. "I'm sending good ol' Dr. Atlas over to you with this message: Sorry about that whole debacle. If I'd have known you got sick when you saw high spots, I would never, ever have brought you in the front door. It's a complete error of judgement on my part, and I'm really feeling bad 'bout it. Maybe after work tomorrow I can pick you up and take you over to see the facility in the back way? There's just regular old floor that way, and its real close to the testing tracks, which I hope Atlas has probably mentioned by now. Even if you don't want to, it would be great to have some company up in my office. You're a smart lad, I think there's a few other cool tidbits I've got laying around without a big ol' "classified" stamp over them. Alright, time limit for this thing is almost up, have a good day, Doug! Craig out."

"So that's that..." Doug says, awestruck at the whirring device.

The little boy has his head turned directly up to the device now. Everything about it intrigues him, from its size to the little voice it was playing. The toddler tugs on Atlas's pants leg in the desperate hopes that he'd get to hold the thing.

Unfortunately, the startled scientist flails his arms at just the right angle to allow the device to sail up and hit Doug square in the forehead, with precisely enough force to draw blood. Doug's eyes widen as the device impacts with his right eyelid. The blue Aperture flyers scatter in midair as he falls back onto the cool, hard tile surface- and into unconsciousness.

* * *

_The hospital isn't so bad_.

Atlas, despite Doug's pleas otherwise, is covering the entire bill out of pocket. The only problem was, Doug's eye suffered some permanent damage. It can only stay wide, never shrinking or growing to adjust to the light. That put all the more pressure on his left to maintain its functionality, and strain was not something he needed right now. His internal bleeding and subsequent aniscoria were worrisome enough.

Douglas leans back, getting comfier in his bed, and he turns on the blurry TV. Dukes of Hazard is playing, and Doug watches disinterestedly.

His thoughts drift back to Craig and Atlas.

_There's something wrong with them... It's like they're plotting or something... no, I can't be paranoid. That's not going to help me any more than it's going to cure my aniscoria. I've got to find something concrete about them, if I can't, then I know my paranoia isn't justified._

_Atlas talked weird, sure, but he's German. And he wasn't exactly a social butterfly either, so that covers a lot of him, actually. Craig, well, he just was trying to help somebody down and out. Maybe I remind him of someone or something, maybe something else makes him take an interest. People don't just randomly show interest in coffee makers from Michigan. I guess that's the only suspicious thing... but maybe I don't have enough experience with people to know the difference... _

_Hang on. I'm a person. I've seen kids at school do stuff like this to me when they want something. But they're a lot more up front about it, and less genuine, and hell, not even adults yet. Maybe I'm over-thinking things. This is what the older generation does, they have to worry about being nice and sociable whereas a kid in calculus only has about 6 minutes to get test answers before class starts.  
_

_I... I don't know why they seem to like me, but beyond that, they haven't done a thing wrong. Atlas more than made up for the accident, and Craig's been nothing but kind. I've been nothing but trusting... and it's turning out OK._

Doug pulls out the pocket watch, reflecting his day and his face as he looks into the silvery surface.

_What should I do, Dad? Should I trust these men, or should I get out of this now while I have the chance?_


	5. Incinerated

Three days after the incident, Doug is discharged with a relatively clean bill of health. His eye is OK, and the doctors ran several voluntary mental scans while he was there, but he still has an enormous bandage and his schizophrenia isn't cured. _Not that it can be_, he thinks. Atlas stops by to drive him to his work so he can get his car, and then Doug is on his own again.

He immediately retreats to his apartment before the Thursday rush hour traffic can pick up.

Doug grabs a soda from the fridge, popping it open and guzzling it down. He turns his head to the sketchbook lying on the counter. His psychiatric appointment was yesterday and he is supposed to start drawing his feelings. Doug much prefers writing but in the past it has not helped.

He grabs a black ink pen and decides to draw himself. He starts the drawing with many oblong corners until he realizes that his face looks more like a hunk of bread than a face. He laughs but keeps going; he can't erase anything since he's writing in pen. The challenge it poses in and of itself interests him deeply on a psychological level. What if everything he'd ever done in real life was permanent? What if... what if that included living forever?

_I guess it would be scary to live forever. Maybe I'd like to live longer than 80 years or so, but I wouldn't want to live forever. But I wouldn't want to stay old and decrepit the whole time. If I had the choice... well, hold on... if I still had schizophrenia, would it even be worth it? No. There's nothing left to live in a life like that. If I could live forever, then I really _would_ be a freak. More so than I am already.  
_

The rest of the head goes quickly; his mop of black hair comes up in wild, spiky curls, while the two conflicting eyes reflect his sanity differently, and he adds a little chin stubble to look nice. He doesn't draw the bandage, and he doesn't do a whole lot with the ears or nose. Finally he smiles, setting down the pen to honor his handiwork. His right hand, the dominant one, it black along the edge from brushing against the ink. The drawing its smudged, but still has the hard lines he drew it with.

The drawing is strange, showing his body in an unnatural position, but with his facial features stuck in a normal place. It makes him reflect further on his life; how he should be normal, but his circumstances have twisted him otherwise. He sketches some shoulders and a nice polo shirt collar before closing the book.

He suddenly checks the clock with a cheer. It's almost time to take his meds, but the first couple of minutes beforehand he will start seeing images around him. No dead bodies, just things in his own life deciding to move around in the air. It's a feeling of no gravity, and there are a few other fun perks to the delusions he experiences regularly before the meds wear off. His schizophrenia will give him about fifteen minutes of freedom, like a lucid dream, without any input from the voices.

He grabs his game cards and lays three of them flat. There is a cream colored feline creature with many tails and a furry body, a round, blue rodent with a bouncy tail and a yellow creature with two prongs on its head complemented by black stripes on its arms.

He waits, watching the clock tick down... Until it stops.

Then his couch starts flying.

Doug grins as he sees the shapes on the cards fly up from their paper binding, turning into real things. The foxy creature alights next to him, smiling up without showing its teeth. He rubs the crest of her fur very gently, and she snuggles into his lap. Her body is warm and Doug relaxes all his muscles as she cuddles there. He likes this card the most of the three.

The blue rodent leaps up with a strangled cry. Doug's illusions can't speak, however, the voices in his head usually provide dialogue if they are present. Right now, the voices are silenced while his spiritual eyes, if you can call them that, are opened. The little azure creature bounces around and around, letting its body roll wherever the environment takes it. Everything in the apartment, including Doug, is in midair; gravity having decided to leave them be for a while. The rodent's cheerful bouncing makes Doug smile wider. He takes a deep breath, calming his muscles and heightening his awareness of the illusion's potency.

Then there is the yellow creature, sprouting a nasty attitude. It has stubby legs but strong arms, and it seems to hate the anti-gravity. It holds itself down on the carpet while making an attempt to scold the rodent for nothing in particular. Though Doug's ears are not privy to the sounds, the rodent's are, and it chatters back something rude, making the fox on his lap giggle somewhat. The fox gets up, and nudges the yellow creature until he, too, is suspended in midair against his will. Doug laughs as the panicked little thing flails about before resuming its tough guy attitude. It's stoic nature doesn't falter, not even when it flies into the wall and hits its face. The rodent doesn't even bother containing its mad laughter and the fox tries to be gentle in calming it down.

The rodent does a sommersault in midair, colliding with the yellow creature. The two play bumper cars with their bodies, forgetting their respective attitudes while engrossed in the play. Doug watches on in a paternal manner, the fox at his side licking his cheek. The sense of completeness the scene provides starts to tug at the schizophrenic's heartstrings.

They stay like that for a few minutes longer, then the couch starts to settle down. Doug knows it is time for his friends to leave, and his face puts up a remorse expression. This lets the animals know that they have to get back in their cards, and begrudgingly, they do. The fox whips his face with her tail, but he can't quite feel it. He frowns as they disappear back into the holographic paper, and he slowly settles back to Earth too.

This is his least favorite part of the journey, because in five seconds, everything will travel south. He wants to stand to grab his pills, but his sense of balance is not functioning properly yet. He doesn't feel used to this gravity shift.

5... 4... 3... 2... 1... He shudders. _Why don't you kill yourself? Everyone hates you, they always talk about killing you behind your back, you suck, you don't have anything to look forward to, everyone thinks you're a nerd..._

The voices go on as Doug stands, delicately reaching for the pill bottle and glass of water on his kitchen table. He swallows the pills and drinks. The medicine slowly quenches the voices in his mind and he goes back to the couch to sulk. He pockets the cards and turns on the TV.

All in the Family is on and he decides to flip channels. Happy Days is one channel up and Brady Bunch is one up higher than that. He sighs with discontent.

He'll probably never have a family.

* * *

"Alright, Atlas, I'm a busy man. I have incendiary lemons to deal with on a..." Cave Johnson cuts off his hurried speech with with a flurry of coughs. "Point is I've got stuff to do. Whatever it is you need my approval for _better be good_."

"Sir, I appreciate your time so-"

"Come_ ON_, Lab boy! Skip the formalities!"

"We want to have an exhibition."

Cave's interest falls off the radar faster than a tester stuck in an infinite loop. "Why don't you talk to Caroline about that?"

"Sir, she said we needed your approval to show off some-"

"Here, just take my approval. Just take it. I'll sign whatever you need, if she's OK with this."

Atlas hands him a stack of papers. Cave groans.

"All of them?"

"No, the top pages explain what we need approved. We have a massive test chamber for anyone who wants to use the handheld quantum tunneling device and we-"

"Brilliant! Testing! Genius! Now hurry up and let me sign before I die of..."

Cave stops his rant, reflecting seriously on his statement. He doesn't want to think about anything terminal right now. He flips through the many pages, signing all but one. The words marked at the top catch him off guard.

"We're not exhibiting it yet. Just show people the test chambers and call that an exhibition."

"Sir, if we make this look like a sham to get people testing then-"

"Then offer refreshments and a party room or something. God, do I gotta do everything around here? Get a band, get a TV station," Cave accents this with a round of coughing.

"Point is, get something. And I expect you to hand this over to the financial district to plan, I want you lab boys working day and night on the... project."

Atlas expects this response and doesn't bother arguing. Cave won't care if the troop of "lab boys" takes a field trip to the party when it starts. He'll probably be too drunk to care at that point.

"Of course sir. We're setting the date in a few weeks, if that's alright."

Cave nods and shoos him away, pointing in the direction of Caroline's desk.

Atlas grins; with Cave's support, he has two feet in the doorway. If he had gone to Caroline for approval first, the exhibition wouldn't exist. Now he just has to make sure nothing spoils his luck.

On his way out, Atlas accidentally runs into a man with striking blue eyes and a freckly complexion. His hair is auburn and wavy, flowing to a decent length.

"Oi, real sorry about that. My mistake, entirely, to be perfectly honest. Name's Wheatley, here for a job interview, all the way from Liverpool."

Atlas grins and shakes his hand. He's never seen this bloke around but he can appreciate the struggles of being a foreigner.

"Dr. Atlas Bowdoin. Sorry to cut this short but I do have a little business to take care of. Maybe I'll see you around?"

"Uhh... Yeah! Yeah, yeah, I'll see you too. Sometime. After the interview. Yeah."

Wheatley walks away. Atlas smiles and goes up to talk with Caroline. As she sees him coming, she purses her lips. Judging from his expression and the signed stack of papers, Cave has just agreed to something ridiculous. She knows her boss down to a T, and all about the frequent visitations of this particular manipulator.

He just grins, hiding his devilish side behind sharp, white teeth.

* * *

Doug gets up, eats, showers, grabs his things, remembers his pills, and heads to work. Today is Friday, and he gets his paycheck today.

Craig, unbeknownst to Harriet and Douglas, is already there. He's rigging the coffee machine with his new assistant, a sociable fellow named Wheatley.

"So why are we rigging a coffee machine in the middle of nowhere again? I mean, it seems a little odd, to be perfectly honest. And well, whoever works this thing is gonna have a helluva day. Come on, man-"

Craig gives him a look that spells "M-U-R-D-E-R." Wheatley doesn't catch on. He's been having one-way conversation the entire time and he seems to know nothing about social cues.

_First chance I get,_ Craig thinks, _I'm dumping this guy into another department. JUST SHUT UP ALREADY!_

Craig coils his fist but calms down. He remembers the task at hand and sobers completely, ignoring his "assistant."

_If hinder-ant was a word it would better describe him._

Doug's car pulls up in the drive, and he's shocked to see two other cars here. One is Craig's BMW. Harriet's car isn't here however, and he doesn't recognize the other car.

"Oh god, someone's coming! Get out of there, man alive, SOMEONE IS COMING!"

Craig leaps up from his stupor, grabbing his tool box in a flash and leaping through the back door. Wheatley follows suit, silently praying that nobody has seen him. He's only had this job for a day or so and if he mucks up one more, just one more, his mother will probably get a restraining order just so he doesn't come back home.

What the two failed to notice was the wrench they left behind, hanging on the side of the counter.

Doug unlocks the front door just as the trespassers close the back one. Ignorant of the fiasco that just took place, Doug walks over to start up the coffee machine.

* * *

Wheatley and Craig go over the plan. Wheatley listens without interrupting, an _extraordinary_ feat for his attention span, as Craig details the operation.

"Right, when the shop opens, you go in and order something. Make sure he bungles it up, get real mad, and we'll get him fired for sure. I'll go in to aid his defense, but I won't make it too good. Then when he's all dejected from losing his job and such, I'll ask him to stop by my office and BAM he's just landed himself an internship. Do you understand the plan?"

"It's real straight forward and all... But I don't want to get the guy fired. Can't we just offer him the job?"

"No, that's too complicated! He's too dedicated to this place and we _need_ him to help us up at corporate, as soon as we can get him."

"You've got me, though..."

Craig sighs. "We'll if you aren't willing to help me now, you must not be _really_ dedicated to science... I guess I _could_ ask Dr. Atlas to reconsider his recommendation..."

"No! No no no, no not necessary! Not at all, mate. I'll help, I _swear_. I'll wear a bloody tutu in to work tomorrow if that's what it takes!"

"Good," he says, checking his watch. The store has just opened. "Let's go."

* * *

When Wheatley steps in the building, he realizes that hell has broken loose, frozen over, been doused in coffee, and then burned to a crisp. Then hell breaks open again and continues the cycle.

"Good lord, man! You're... You're gonna need some help with that?"

Doug turns his head, his eyes filled with nervous tears.

_ Oh god oh god oh god a customer... I'm screwed... There isn't a word for how screwed I am..._

"We're... H-h-av-ing s-some tech... T-tech... Technical difficulties!" He blurts.

"Just a mocha latte for me then... When this, um, starts working..."

Wheatley slogs through the mound of coffee grounds and hot liquid running down the floor to sit at the table beside the counter.

_Step one: Complete Success,_ Wheatley thinks to himself.

_ Step two: Wait for an opening.  
_

Doug does everything he can think of to stop the machine. Conveniently, the power button doesn't work and he can't reach the plug. He thought this man would be able to help but judging by the way he disinterestedly reads the local news he's in no mood to do so.

Doug tries shifting the machine to the left to reach the plug but a massive chunk of whipped cream coats his hands and arms. His hair is matted down with caramel sauce already, and now there is froth and little beans everywhere. He makes an exasperated sound and his mouth drops in a big O. To make matters worse the machine won't budge, and there is probably enough coffee in there to last for a solid day.

Wheatley nonchalantly crosses his legs so that the flowing liquid doesn't ruin his loafers.

_ Forgive me if I'm rude,_ Doug thinks,_ BUT SHOULDN'T YOU CARE? I mean, I'd panic if I saw someone so worried like this. How can he ignore me and the machine spewing 420 liters of hot, frothy caffeine?_

Wheatley steals glances at the machine and the hopeless boy from time to time. He taps his feet nervously, hoping that his boss won't be too cruel about firing him. Wheatley knows how it feels to get fired for doing nothing wrong.

Then he remembers his charade of being angry, and he shakes off his reverie in an attempt to come up with something to be mad about.

_ It would be a real shame if he spilled coffee all over me... Heh heh..._

Wheatley stands and goes over to watch Doug. "Need help, mate?"

_ Oh finally, _Doug thinks,_ he's stopped being self centered._

"Yeah, I do need some help. I g-gotta move this machine to the side so I can reach the back p-plug. Can you stand on this side and pull this thing t-towards you?"

The red-haired man has no problem with Doug's plan, this is a good angle to stage an accident. He grabs the stainless steel plates of the machine, and before Doug is ready, he immediately pulls. The angle of the movement is just sharp enough that the liquid stream pouring out hits him smack dab in the face.

Wheatley instantly regrets the decision, forgets his pity for Doug and the charade he's supposed to be performing, and starts raving about the situation for real.

"AHHH! HOT HOT HOT! IT BURNS! OH IT BURNS! _BLOODY HELL! GET IT OFF!_ AHHHHHHHHH! IIIIITTTTT BUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRNNNNNSSSSS!"

Wheatley runs around behind the counter like a chicken with his head cut off, prancing around the room as Doug finally unplugs the device in a hurry. The waterfall of caffeinated beverages ends.

The Brit slams into the counter, knocking over the cash register, porcelain plates of mini cakes, signs and posters, and even a toothpick dispenser before stumbling out and tripping over his own two feet. Shards of the plates cut into his feet as he runs out the door...

Well, he would have run out the door if he could see. As it is, he hits the glass paneling, leaving an awkward impression and splotches of brown goo on the glass. His melodramatic performance isn't done just yet, he slips over the floor and lands on his head, knocked out cold, causing the mounds of whipped cream under him to come puffing up and settle like snowflakes all over the store.

Harriet's Coffee Shoppe is a complete wreck. An utter decimation of the place it used to be. Everything is coated in chocolately slime, or nutmeg, or some other form of potable energy.

Just as Douglas Rattman catches his breath, he sees the wrench on the counter. Gingerly he picks it up, not believing his day thus far. What in God's name is this doing here? Did someone... use this? Who could have left such a thing here?

Harriet comes in through the back, setting her coat on a peg and entering through the kitchen side door, thinking of her cat, Mr. Mittens. It probably needs to go to the vet for a check up soon.

Her heart stops as she sees Wheatley passed out, cream and coffee everywhere, soiled money, broken dishes, the machine unplugged and the incriminating wrench in Doug's hands.

She instantly breaks down and cries as her years of investing fly out the window because of a clumsy, curious boy who probably tried to fix a problem he couldn't solve.


	6. Tick Tack Toxin

**AN: To those of you who had to read through the unedited version of this: Sorry. It's been fixed. To the rest of you, enjoy.**

* * *

He really doesn't want to get out of bed today. It would be extremely nice if he could just stay unconscious... For about 6 years, perhaps. Craig invited him over to his office again, and seeing as how Doug is currently unemployed, he doesn't have anything else to do. That stupid guy who tried to "help" him yesterday blamed the entire incident on Doug, and because of that lovely break he took several days ago, Harriet's patience wore thin. When Wheatley legitimately threatened to sue, it became official: Douglas Rattmann was out of a job.

He sighs, thinking about the wreck his life has become. Poor Harriet would need to close the shop for weeks in order to fix the machine and completely clean the floor, buy new plates and psychologically recuperate. He'd been let go very gently, but the fact remained he was out of work.

_I could try playing detective... but I don't think she wants to see me until next millennium._

Doug haphazardly throws on a pair of jeans and a dress shirt. He still has to see Craig, he can't just duck out of the appointment like that, it would be incredibly rude not to go after all of his kindness. Plus, he has an opportunity to properly thank Dr. Bowdoin for his generous... er, donation. Whatever he was supposed to call the hospital expenses.

He gives up on showering before he heads out; he wasted all of his water yesterday trying to remove the caked on grime from his hair. He's going to have to head to a barber, and with God knows what money, get his head shaved if he wants to stop smelling like cinnamon.

The car ride to Aperture is uneventful. Every part of him that was feeling paranoia before has succumbed to grief for poor Harriet, and a larger portion to self-pity. The dirt road stretching before him is empty, save his Camry, though his thoughts are buzzing, all asking the very same question.

_Why?_

* * *

Doug gets out of the car, placing the sticker Atlas gave him on his windshield. The sticker is printed with his name and a serial number in black ink, but he doesn't know what the number stands for.

He smells the earthy, autumnal Michigan air, allowing it to fill his lungs and mind to clear out the feeling of self loathing. Doug pays no heed to the sun blaring in his eyes or the wind whipping his face, not even paying attention to the dead stalks of wheat tumbling through the parking lot and delicately hitting the car.

No, every thought processing synapse in Douglas's head is filled with young curiosity.

_What could be waiting inside those doors, past the catwalks and the abyss? What could be so secret, so classified, that the employees can't talk about it? What could be stranger than a... what's it called... quantum tunneling device?_

Douglas is about to find out. He takes slow, insecure strides towards the front door before remembering that Craig mentioned a back door somewhere in his message. Where was he supposed to meet with Craig, anyway?

As if an angel has suddenly smiled down on him, the doors open and Craig strides out, flanked by a crew of four scientists, Atlas among them.

"Hello, Doug! I brought a couple friends of mine. This here is Dr. Chambers, Dr. Tremblay, Dr. Bowdoin and his assistant, Antony."

Antony is a lanky, strawberry blonde fellow with curly locks stretching to his shoulders. Despite his height, he does not seem intimidating; rather, he appears as shy a Doug. Dr. Bowdoin gives a confident grin, clapping his assistant with a hardy pat on the back. Chambers is a slender woman with eyes burning like coals hidden behind square glasses, clad in a pristine white coat and sensible grey flats.

Dr. Tremblay is different entirely. There is a spark of intelligence in his gaze, and unparallelled excitement seemed to emanate from all of his features. His hair is balding but there is black hair ringing the sides of his head. His showy smirk does nothing to calm Doug, rather, the man is terrifying to the eye's touch. However, Douglas feels that he should give this particular man the utmost respect, as there is something hiding behind his gaze- something dangerous and debonair at the same time.

"Well, hello... I'm D-Doug," he says, barely keeping his nervousness down as he shakes hands with each scientist. Bowdoin and Antony are quick about it, but Chambers refuses to blink as she eyes his hand. Tremblay skips out on the physical contact altogether.

"Well, with the introductions out of the way, let's go on in around back. Tremblay, if you would-"

"Of course, Craig. Come this way, Doug!" He says, his eyes reflecting a hidden emotion that is anything but chipper. The small crowd walks cautiously around back; a rag-tag group of antisocial individuals who have found a purpose in science.

But is Doug cut out for this kind of life? What _is_ he doing here anyway, why does he trust this many people when he feels as volatile as a loaded shotgun pointed at a crowd?

The back door is much less impressive than the front. There is a loading dock for trucks and a garage door for something else, but the door they use is an ordinary plywood surface with a cold, metal handle. Doug walks in first, followed swiftly by Craig and Atlas.

The room they enter is cold and sterile, its walls comprised of white panels the height of Doug's body. There is a hallway stretching out beyond... and regrettably, a set of catwalks.

"I know you don't like the catwalks much, but we'll have to make do. Maybe just getting used to them one at a time rather than seeing all of them at once might help, eh?"

Doug can't help but notice that the tone Craig used sounds final, as if he'll be coming back here every day until he dies.

Tremblay takes the lead as the small congregation moves along the rails, ushering Doug too quickly for him to look down. He doesn't mind, rather, he is grateful for the distraction.

"There's trace amounts of neurotoxin in the floor there. That's what gives the mist its color. We had a few other.. problems back in the day..." says Tremblay, fishing for words than can explain the situation without mentioning how all of the mantis men were killed. Doug doesn't bother asking, he simply files the information away in his head.

The troop walks up for a while until they come to a set of double doors identical to the ones outside.

"Alright, now Doug... get ready for something cool," Antony whispers in his ear. Antony looks a little older than Doug but seemed to understand best what he was feeling. Doug nodded and the door opened.

His breath was taken away as he stared at a giant chamber, with modems and mainframes strewn every which way. There was some kind of structure in the middle of the room, a huge device towering from the heavens.

Doug noticed that there were sixty people working on this thing at once. He paled, fearing any interactions with them. This band of five was bad enough, now would he be expected to communicate with everyone?

"We can't tell you anything more about this, Doug," Craig whispered. "You'll have to pretend you never saw it. We're just _escorting_ our companions here, right?"

Doug nodded, glad he didn't have to see any more people and even happier that the party would be shrinking, hopefully down to Doug and Craig or Atlas. At the same time, his curiosity started blooming up from his chest, and it must have been visible on his face. Antony whispered something into his ear, then walked off with Dr. Bowdoin to inspect the machinery.

Doug wasn't sure what exactly Antony had meant, but he made an effort to remember the message.

Chambers and Tremblay left too, but not without a parting wave and cheeky grin each. Doug did his best to return the motion but was more or less only eager to know more or turn back.

Craig escorted him out of the room and back down the catwalks.

He tried desperately not to look down, but his eyes naturally drifted there anyway. He saw the blue mist below, thousands of feet down, and he almost gagged, but Craig steadied him with a hand on each shoulder. "Calm down. I've got something else to show you. This time, you and I'll be the only ones there, so don't worry, we can peak around to our hearts' content."

Doug smiled, finally glad to be free of the nauseating grip the floor had on his mind. His thoughts drifted to the project yet again. What was the device hanging from the ceiling... a computer? Or was it some kind of alternate universe tunneling device?

The two finally approached another set of doors. Once inside, Doug shut the door quickly behind him. He felt much safer in the closed space. He didn't have agoraphobia but... well, he just felt less likely to fall thousands of feet to his death.

Craig pulled out a round device, covered in whitish panels with a black cover rotating on a gyroscope.

"This is called a personality core, Doug. Say hello!"

"H-Hello, personality core..." he feebly called.

"Oh come on, a little more excitement! This thing is a huge breakthrough! Go on, hold it!"

Craig tossed it, and a surprised Douglas barely caught it by the handles. It was surprisingly heavy but very intricate. He peered into the side of it, focusing on the many gears and hard drive ports the device possessed.

"Hello, personality core, I'm Doug," Doug said, confident that the thing wouldn't respond.

He was only partially right.

"Hello, Doug. I am personality core number model number 375, product of Aperture science innovators Craig Preston and Wheatley Taylor ."

A bright white light stands out on the black reflective surface. Doug reels back in shock, the thing had responded!

"This is out first working model. It's not fully functional, but it is programmed to respond to limited stimuli. For instance, if you drop it, it gets mad at you. If you say hello, it greets you right back. It's capable of speaking already, since we put the voice modifier in. And lastly, it's compatible with any sort of device you can think to hook it up to, so you can reprogram it any way you can think of. Try dropping it!"

"Is it safe?"

"Oh, sure, it can't break from that little bit of pressure."

Doug looks at the device, holds it at arms length, and gently removes his hands.

A whooshing noise, then a_ ker-thunk_ sounds as the device impacts.

"Doug, that was mean! Please do not drop me! I am a piece of delicate equipment!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, core model 375!"

The core's eye blinks out and it stays silent.

"It automatically turns off when it runs out of responses. Anytime we get a rouge AI, it's important to have automatic ways to shut it off safely."

"I can see why."

"So you heard the thing, anyway, it knows its creators. But bloody Cave, my boss, see, he's got everyone working on the project..." Craig mumbles as Doug turns his gaze back from the floor. He grabs the device, storing it back on the shelf, and continues mumbling.

"He doesn't understand... this thing... the cores... they're going to... to..."

"Craig? You alright?"

"Yeah. Nobody thinks these cores are worth a damn. But I know they're important. I've got the full time licensing to work on them, but I don't have any good assistants.

"What about this Wheatley fellow?"

Craig's face reddens. "Waste of my time, working with him. He barely helped at all, and he wouldn't shut up. Only hired him a few days ago and he's a complete... moron..." Craig trails off, lost in thought. He suddenly realizes how strong that trait is in Wheatley. Maybe if he... yes! _YES! A perfect candidate for a core. Having that kind of technology at my disposal... able to disable anything it's working with... it's just..._

Craig calms down and gives Doug his trademark creepy grin. "Hang on... that idiot is... he's... nevermind! Doug! I've got something crazy to ask you!"

Doug's eyebrows shoot up, but his curiosity is escalating to unhealthy levels. This very curiosity... it's about to kill the cat. Or rather, the rat.

"What?"

"How would you like to help me with this project of mine? You could be a bona-fide member of Aperture science... come on!"

Doug pales, and takes a step back. "Craig, are you nuts? I have a j-" he pauses. He most definitely does not have a job. He needs money, and his curiosity needs to be satiated. It's driving him insane. Perhaps this crazy place, these crazy people... maybe this is just what he needs to make his life something bigger. To contribute to science... it's always been one of his favorite things to do. Maybe he should start taking this interest seriously. But how could he qualify? And how can Craig just have a job waiting right here for him?

_There's something very wrong with this... but I need the money. Craig seems to care about me, Atlas and Antony seem to have something nice going for them. I_ _could have a golden opportunity staring me in the face. Why am I letting my paranoia get in the way? I... can I refuse? Or am I too deep in this already? This is it Doug, make the choice! Stick with Craig and work at Aperture on the personality cores... or go back to a life of nothing? What have you got to lose?_

"Are you sure its OK for me to just suddenly get a job here? What about interviewing, qualifications... I'm fresh out of high school, Craig!"

Craig chuckles, seeing the indecision on his face. He knows he's about to hit his mark, hook, line and sinker. "I've got connections in high places, buddy. I could take you up to the top, I'll teach you everything I know. You're perfect for this job, I can see it in your eyes."

_My eyes...? But they're different sizes now! Is he implying I'm a loon? And my condition! How could I be fit to work here?_

"Trust me, Doug, I know you're cut out for this. We can arrange it right now. So what do you say? Do you wanna keep working at that coffee shop forever-" Doug winces, "-or do you want to be a part of something_ big_?"

_He's forcing me to choose right now! I have my hands tied, it's like he knows that I need this job without saying it flat out! Wait, no, that's my paranoia getting in the way. Argh! Maybe it's not! I can't trust my gut on this one! I have to pick a side! I... I... I kinda do wanna work here... no what am I saying? How can I trust a friendship I've made with this man in a week? No, we've been talking at least since the scientists started showing up. He does care about my well being, and he needs an assistant. He and his coworkers have been nothing but kind to me... Harriet only looked down on me. Here, I can be an equal... how can I repay him by saying no? I've got to pick something! And if I can't trust my gut or my experience, I have to trust this head of mine._

"...I'll do it," Doug replies, unceremoniously, without a trace of fear or anger. "It seems like a good idea... and truth be told, I got fired yesterday..."

Craig shows concern. "You got fired? What for?"

_Erk! Oh no, now he can't trust me! Dammit, Doug, explain the situation! _"See, the coffee machine somehow got wrecked overnight... I don't know how but it started spewing everything everywhere. Some moron came in and ended up not only making things worse, but when he threatened to sue my boss could do nothing but fire me. The man was serious and I had one too many black marks on my report card anyway..."

Craig frowned. He felt like a dirtball for what he'd done to Doug... but the young man was getting valuable experience.

_And now, he belongs to Aperture for good. A sacrifice well worth making._


	7. cHApter tit1e Not f0und, PlEaSe Rebo0t

Doug exits his apartment, ready for the day to start. Today marks his first day in the office as an official Aperture intern, and also the day of the exhibition. He'll be getting a tour of the facility, an introduction to some of the "big guys on campus" and an official introduction to Craig's research on cores. Doug is dying to get his hands behind that technology, and his initial fears about Aperture have proven to be unjustified. Well, except for his fear of heights. Aperture was built in an old salt mine, and were he unlucky enough to fall down off a catwalk, he'd be stuck falling for ten minutes straight before his body can impact with the acidic ground- so many miles down that nobody cares to count anymore.

Fortunately, they have safety railings for that.

He tugs on the hem of his new lab coat, pressed and pristine like Dr. Chambers', and he places a name tag sticker on his left pocket. It's crinkly, blue surface reads:

"HELLO. My name is: Dr. Douglas Rattmann."

Even though he isn't an actual doctor, all of the employees get an "official" doctorate in employee training. Nobody else was participating in the training program with Doug, so he was able to get the forms completed fairly quickly. Craig has already taught him a lot anyway: coding, core technology, and the portal testing that has been going on since the 60's. Doug is proud to have so much knowledge under his belt, two weeks in, and he hasn't even seen "the project" yet. From what he's been told, all of the top scientists and their assistants are pouring every ounce of effort into it, both manufacturing some kind of system and preparing extensive coding for it. There's also talk of some kind of "procedure" which depends heavily on neuroscience. As in, people with real degrees, working on actual advanced science.

Doug gets in his car and drives up the road. He turns past small businesses and wheat fields alike, until the complex slowly comes into view. The PR department, consisting of one poor soul who refused to work on "the project" has gone all out making the place look nice: orange banners welcoming whoever happens to show up are posted everywhere and security guards actually occupy the little stand in the parking lot, waving Doug past without looking very closely.

He parks off to the left, close to the trees masking the area to the side of Aperture. Doug can only guess what hides behind those trees. _But no matter,_ he thinks as he steps out of the car, _I've got some science to do!_

The front lobby has stopped terrifying him. He's been coming in this entrance for a few days now, and its original effect has greatly diminished. He's taken to the facility far quicker than he did to Harriet's Coffee Shoppe, perhaps because he's actually doing something that interests him and requires minimal social contact. His psychiatrist was very vocal over the phone when he called, he seems to have a problem with Aperture, but Doug disagrees. This place is just what he needs. He walks down the first catwalk, still with a little bit of fear, but much less. He knows the way up to Craig's office well, he has memorized most of the pathways in this level of the facility. Maybe when he gets more clearance he'll investigate the lower levels, but as it is, he feels at home in this giant maze of progress.

He walks up into Craig's office, the place where all of the core research is taking place until they can secure a real research lab. Cave still doesn't care as much about cores, but he'll make a damn good effort to do so today for the public, since its all they can showcase in terms of AI. Though he's not at peak health, he has enough fight in him to interest the spectators... if any actually dare to show up.

Doug opens a drawer in Craig's desk, glancing over some of model 375's schematics. This is all so amazing, so exhilarating! He's making a difference in the world!

He adjusts his tie and pulls out a few of the older schematics that Craig has asked him to review. These are the models of the previous cores, the ones that didn't work. Though the current model, 375, doesn't have much AI, it still has the capacity to respond and repeat names in its own voice, which is apparently a breakthrough. Just about everything is a breakthrough, according to Craig. But that's what makes life so interesting!

Doug skims the contents of the papers, identifying things that are different from model 375. He notes that the optic plate is missing on this one, the handles more curved on that one... yep, he's so good at this. It seems too easy, but it's science, apparently.

The exhibition isn't scheduled to start for another three hours. Doug's responsibility is simple, he has to observe the large testing chamber with Craig when the spectators arrive. Then, he'll man the punch bowl at the party, but Craig has told him that after 5 or 6 minutes of that, Cave will be too drunk to care _what_ he does.

_I'm getting excited just thinking about it! That one party last year... I wonder if it's going to be similar?_

Craig suddenly walks in, holding a huge, white cardboard box. "Hey, champ! Look who's an official intern now! Bet you're excited for this exhibition, right?"

Doug can't help but grin. Today is going to be _perfect_. "Yeah! What have you got there, boss?"

"I've got something for ya! Just a little, 'Hey congrats on the job' type thing. Come on, open it!"

He sets the box down, just out of Doug's reach. Doug stands and crosses the room, his excitement spilling over and smothering the floor. He opens the lid, very gently...

"It's a black forest cake!"

"Looks good? I wasn't sure what you liked but I figured this would be OK. It was on sale when I went out for breakfast this morning. I invited Atlas and Antony over to share it. They'll be up in a second. Let's get this party started, hey?"

Douglas grins so wide, he isn't sure he'll be able to stop. "Let's cut the cake, Craig! Come on!"

But just as Douglas is about to grab a slice, Antony comes rushing in. He is out of breath and Atlas is nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Dr. Bowdoin?"

"Antony, what's wrong?"

"Come on, boy, speak up! What's the matter?"

A torrent of words assail poor Antony until Doug realizes that they are overwhelming him. "Hold up, Craig. Let him catch his breath."

Antony nods, breathing heavily for a few more seconds before straightening up. His heart rate is still through the roof but he has to deliver his message _now_. "C-cave... he's... h-he's in the... _the project_... he wants to... now..."

"Come on! Antony, we need something to work with!" Craig shouts, veins bulging. He is not a very patient man when it comes to the antics of Cave, the project, and anything getting in the way of food.

"Cave's got... some sort of problem," Antony gulps. "He's demanding we do _the thing_ now."

"What thing?" Doug asks, curiosity once again consuming him.

Antony and Craig exchange glances, ignoring Doug completely. "It's not ready, and he knows damn well it..." he sighs. "Just tell him it can wait until tomorrow."

"He's not waiting, Craig, he tried strapping himself in."

Craig's left eye twitches so violently it's a miracle it doesn't exit his cranium. "Doug, just watch the cake. I've got something I need to take care of and you don't have clearance yet. Just hang tight," he says, trailing off as he follows Anthony out the door. Doug can hear their footsteps banging across the catwalk as Craig converts his anger into velocity.

Doug shuts the door and stares at the cake.

What could be so secret that it has to interrupt their little office party?

He boxes the pastry back up, sitting in the chair and reviewing the schematics. The cake can wait.

* * *

_It's been three hours. The exhibition is about to start! Where are Craig, Atlas and Antony? What could be keeping them? What is Cave up to?_

Doug knows that Cave is the CEO, but beyond the fact that he's a bastard to his workers and a sickly old man, he knows nothing. Cave's prerecorded messages and the frequent insults directed at his drinking habits can only clue him in so much.

Doug is sick of waiting. Someone has to receive the guests. He leaves a note on Craig's desk in case he returns and heads to the lobby, ignoring the catwalks behind him, preparing to speak with whoever happens to come in the door. He's scared, but his confidence in Aperture gives him a little bit more self esteem than he is used to.

Minutes pass, and thankfully, nobody passes through the doors. Unfortunately however, he's still worried.

_What's going on? There's nobody else running through the halls. Did they all head to the test chamber? Should I be looking for them?_

Doug leaves the door unattended to check Craig's office. Nothing is happening.

Fortunately, Doug catches sight of a lady with a clipboard, running towards the stairs down. It's Dr. Chambers.

He cries out to her, but he doubts that she hears him. He chases after her, unable to catch up as she descends down the stairs.

He knows he doesn't have clearance but... well, he has to know what's going on! But what if he gets lost? How is he going to explain this? He can't lose his job _on the first day. _He needs to think of a way to contact Craig or Atlas or even Dr. Chambers. Something big is happening. That's why he joined, right? Why isn't he part of it?

_I need to think rationally. Everyone is disappearing downstairs. There's probably nobody else here on the upper floors and there's nobody coming in for the exhibition. There has to be some kind of explanation, right? There might be a connection between these two events. Did Cave do something to ruin the party? What was he strapping himself into? Could this be related to the project?_

No answers present themselves. Doug is concerned, fed up and terrified all at once. His quiet nature is betraying him, giving way to fear and confusion the likes of which he hasn't experienced since his meltdown. The paranoia is back full force, using this as an opportunity to torment Doug further. What threshold has he not crossed that forbids him from Aperture's lower levels?

* * *

Some time later, a nervous man comes up the stairs and collides with Doug on the catwalks. Mercifully the two do not fall, but Doug seizes the opportunity to ask his burning questions.

"What's going on down there? What's happening with the exhibition?"

Tears ring the edge of the man's eyes.

"Cave... and Caroline..." He mutters, overcome with emotion. He can barely stay functioning. These two names hold quite a bit of significance to him, Doug can tell.

"I don't have clearance downstairs, sir. I need to know if everything is alright. Can you_ please_ tell me what is going on?"

The man's face turns down. He hands Douglas an ID card, and whispers something into his ears.

_"Walk away from Science... yes, walk away from science, my child..."_

The man runs off, leaving Doug to decipher his cryptic message. Clearly, there is something going on down there that violates the man's morals. Doug, however, is too stunned to say or think anything.

Doug reads the card, trying not to panic but failing miserably.

"Dr. Gregor Hainen, Chairman of Aperture Science Innovators, Security Clearance Alpha."

Dr. Rattmann puts the card in his pocket. If anyone questions him, he'll say that this Gregor fellow put him up to it.

He descends down the stairs, passing the card through a special scanner to open a metal door. He races down the halls, making every attempt to memorize the walls around him. He passes several chambers before he hears the sounds of several people screaming. Doug races up another catwalk, trying to drown his fears out with the sound of running.

His heart has wedged itself in his throat and refuses to let go. It's pumping blood much faster than it should, forcing Doug's eyes to bulge ever so slightly as he runs. Combined with his fear and aniscoria, he is the poster child of lunacy.

He sees a congregation of people running as far as they can from a conference room. Some pause and head back in, conflicting with the crowd, but the majority is terrified. Doug joins those rushing back in, though he does so reluctantly. His ears are filled by the sounds of screaming and the bangs of shoes on catwalks. Every possible noise the people can make echoes off of every wall and pipe, drowning his senses and overloading his already stressed brain. He can't think, can't focus, can only run blindly towards the commotion. He turns and gets one look at something silver, and barely hears the sounds of cracking electricity before he is again swept back by the crowd, his ears ringing as the chaos ensues. The metallic tang of ozone hits his nostrils and the hairs on the back of his neck rise several feet.

But today is_ his_ day, today is the day of the exhibition which he doesn't know was planned just for him. He's determined to get past this wall of people. He rushes forwards again, but trips. The stream of bodies catches him, the individuals disguised from the masses. They sweep him away, and this time, he cannot turn back.

What he doesn't know is that the events unfolding behind those doors are the ones that will eventually end up ensnaring him in a personality core. He has no clue that Cave Johnson is sitting in that chair, head lolling forward and body aching with pain as electricity courses through him. He can't possibly hope to recognize the slender female screaming her heart out as she presumes her boss and love interest to be dead. Doug can't possibly be aware of the physical pain surging through the heart of Cave, and the emotional trauma cycling through Caroline and Gregor.

But he does catch a faint glimpse of it.


	8. Dashed Away On The Rocks

**Aaaaaaaaaand there goes the K+ rating.**

**Chapters will be coming in big chunks on weekends and very rarely during the week.**

* * *

Two weeks have passed since the incident. Everywhere you walk in Aperture, the muffled whispers of suspicious scientists pervade the atmosphere. Craig's cluttered office is one of the few silent areas.

"Say, Craig," Doug asks tentatively, breaking the omnipresent quietude, his arm buried deep inside a core. His hands are coated in oil and small parts of the device's body. He doesn't wait for acknowledgement to continue, as he doesn't want to lose his nerve. Tensions have been running high the past two weeks and Doug has slowly been growing less confident, more paranoid. "How does clearance work in the facility?"

Craig doesn't turn to face Doug but adressess the question nonchalantly. "There's Alpha, Beta, Gamma and Zeta. You've got Zeta right now. It means you can access the top floor and you're a qualified worker. I've got Gamma, meaning I have access to the lower floors and I'm able to request meetings with higher-ups. Beta means whoever has it is a floor marshal, and is either a huge part of testing or whatever happens to be on the floor of their office. Only three... er, two people have Alpha right now: Cave and Caroline. I've got no idea what in God's name they do, but I'm sure they can reach the whole facility. Well, I guess Cave might have a little trouble with that new wheelchair of his, but to hell with him. He'll probably make us invent prosthetic legs, if his temper keeps up."

Doug's mouth opens wide and his thoughts instantly drift. _I have access to... everything? I can go... anywhere, I can see anything. I can figure out what other secrets Aperture is hiding... maybe get another look in that conference room._

"You're looking weird again, Dougie," says Craig, using the name that always infuriates the poor schizophrenic. "What's on your mind?"

"Stop it, Craig. I'm just thinking... about having access to the lower parts of this place." There's no sense in lying, social deception requires a lot more effort and will than Doug possesses. "It's a lot to remember, I bet."

"Not really. I can get you a map if you want. I can't take you down there yet, but you can get an idea of what it looks like, at least, if that seems interesting."

Doug frowns as he pulls something out of the core he's working on. He glances at the blueprint, trying to identify the odd part in his hand. It's a small, white plastic object the size of an egg. He can't seem to locate it anywhere in the schematics. The device feels cold, and Doug's hand goes numb. It's like the device is draining his life force; his very soul. But souls can't be real... those are only figments of human imagination, ideas meant to convey the unexplainable. And now that Doug's life has been devoted to science, he can't afford to think of the inexplicable intricacies of reality and incorporeal human existence.

Or _can_ he?

"Craig, what is this thing? I don't see it anywhere on these plans."

Craig looks up in confusion, spots the device, and pales slightly.

"Ummm..." he begins, taken aback by the sudden discovery, although it was obvious in retrospect. It's an AI's flash drive; the item in Doug's unsuspecting hands currently stores the consciousness of an unfortunate small child who happened to wander into the facility one morning. Almost none of his personality was preserved during the procedure, and the small fraction that was saved is completely incoherent. Perhaps the effects of using someone with an underdeveloped mind is the cause, perhaps the technology itself is flawed. If the device is placed in any other core mainframe, it spews gibberish until someone manually shuts it off. The current core mainframe only lets the child respond to two stimuli, and it heavily regulates them.

But how can Craig explain any of this? He's a quick thinker, he'll come up with something... _right?_

"That thing right there is... pretty touchy. Best if we just leave that be... Someone else put it in, must've forgotten to update the blue prints."

Douglas eyes it up before setting it on the counter. He tries desperately to shake some of the feeling back into his frozen hands. He can't help but notice how Craig dodges the subject, strategically avoiding any possible blame for its existence. Doug ponders the odd behavior as he investigates the rest of the core.

_Could this Wheatley fellow have put it in the core? Who else worked on the core with Craig? Dr. Atlas and Dr. Chambers have come up here a couple times... but they're working on the project. Why is this thing so cold, does it regulate temperature? But then... it would have to be a little bigger and be connected to the rest of the core. Oh, here's a wire. It plugs into this thing and goes to... huh. The optic. Well, maybe it has something to do with visual stimuli. That would make it pretty delicate. If it's a camera then... well, it's a pretty small camera. I guess that's cool... Aperture has so many technological marvels. Small cameras, huge sprawling catwalks, hell, AI... It's like this place is straight out of a sci-fi thriller._

_I wonder who the protagonist is..._

Doug mentally takes a step back, ignoring the thoughts circulating through his cranium about science fiction. He's just got to replace this thing and keep familiarizing himself with the parts. If he doesn't know cores forwards and backwards, he'll be of no use to his new boss.

At least, he thinks that he won't.

* * *

Craig stands up, brushing the imaginary dust off of his coat. As dedicated as he is to the glory of science, he's far more dedicated to the hour that his dingy gray office clock has struck: Eight P.M.

He claps Doug on the shoulder, startling the poor boy from his reverie. "We're outta here for the weekend, Dougie."

Doug glances wistfully at the device. It fascinates him to no end. He's attached to this object as if by an umbilical cord, and he wants to get to know it as soon as possible.

"Get your head out of that thing, we're off the clock. Come on, let's take a stop off at Chuck's before we turn in, eh?"

The sociable side of Doug, though small, puts up a feeble argument against his attraction to the core. Combined with Craig's almost commanding presence and the way his meaty hand is threateningly close to Doug's throat, he decides a stop at the local pub won't be too difficult to manage.

"Why not? I could use a bite to eat."

Doug stands, Craig's death grip still encircling his neck like a noose. Doug does not make this inference, however, he sees the gesture as a friendly sign of approval. He and his mentor stride confidently towards the lobby, exhaustion from their day's efforts slowly becoming apparent with each protracted motion. They step out into the wide open world.

Craig pulls his coat a little tighter as the brisk air swirls around him. Dead leaves from the adjacent woods have blown in, marring the otherwise pristine parking lot. Doug again marvels at its cleanliness and the suddenness with which the building sprouts from the ground.

Finally getting situated in their respective cars, Craig turns on his headlights and drives toward the local pub, leading the way for Douglas. Chuck's Tavern on the Rocks is secluded in the shadows of the suburban locale, in a spot Doug would otherwise pass by. The drive passes quickly, their cars' movements hidden by the dusky twilight.

The two men, one a robust and quick witted con-man and the other a young soon-to-be victim of science, stride into the tavern.

The theme is apparently antiquated New Jersey Boardwalk, so the place reeks of smoke and stale beer. A salt tang pervades the area and stabs its way across the room to assail Douglas's eyes and nose. He tries not to make a scene but he can't help sneezing a few times. Craig laughs heartily.

"Heh heh hya hya HA HA! Dougie, boy, you got somethin' with the ol' schnoz actin' up? I was like that the first time I walked in this place. Man, it smells bad in here..."

He takes a big whiff of the air, exhaling it as if he is taking a draft of a Cuban cigar. The air quality probably isn't much different, in terms of nauseating sanitarity.

"Craig... What are we doing here? I'm underage. I can't drink anything."

"I'll give you a sip of my stuff, don't worry."

Douglas's spider senses immediately start tingling. Aside from being told never to take drugs by countless school officials, there is literally something in the air here that sets him off. He smells something exquisite and foreign that reminds him of cinnamon and nutmeg.

_That smell... It's so strange, I recognize it, but I can't quite identify it,_ he thinks._ It feels so familiar... Wait, is this real? Oh shit... I think I'm due for medication..._

"Craig... Hang on..." Doug says, holding his boss back by the arm. He doesn't care what lines he's crossing; he needs the Ziaprazidone NOW. If he waits five more minutes the chairs will start to levitate off the ground, and he_ cannot_ handle one of those episodes while people are watching.

"Aww, we're here! It's party time! Come on, live a little."

"B-but I- HEY!" He says as Craig rushes off behind a curtained area. There's a sign on the wall that reads:

"Red Ribbon Gentlemen's Lounge."

Doug isn't sure what to expect but he has a vague idea. He needs to get his medicine... But the thoughts filling his teenage mind to bursting are not about chemicals or hallucinations. Rather he is thinking of a few less than appropriate concepts... And the temptation draws him in.

Besides, he can't drive home in the state he's in. He needs to retrieve Craig before the two of them are too wasted to escape this place.

* * *

_Where the hell is he!?_ Doug thinks as he takes a seat in a plush cushion, holding the grips firmly to stay grounded. He looks all around, but apart from the shiny wooden raised stage in front of him, there's no place to get a better view, not even a lighting box! Doug frantically searches with his eyes, praying beyond all prayer and wishing beyond all hope. Craig is not among the crowd, his iconic neck bulge doesn't even help identify him.

Doug is at a loss. He drops his head and begs for release from the paranoia just as a spotlight descends on the catwalk. Doug gulps and blushes as he realizes what he's about to see. He tries to stand but finds his way blocked by a sea of hungry wolves...

No, they are people.

No, they are wolves.

They have mouths and noses and stand upright.

They have tails and paws and they howl at the sky... Are they people? No, they aren't any sort of familiar creature._ Look at that one with its bushy tail and the... Oh..._

A lovely she-wolf crawls through a red curtain. A fur scarf dangles from her neck, hiding her smooth skin and gorgeous body as she prowls around the room. _The howls intensify_. Doug barely recognizes what's happening both in reality and in the seat of his pants. Red lips pucker and claws scrape the floor. He's not much of a romancer and he's not the type of person to seek thrills. Nevertheless he is here, disguised among _the drunks_ and the sinners, drinking in the collective _desire for one_ canine.

Doug blinks and stares at a scantily clad lady emerging from _ringlets of smoke_, moving seductively to some tune. He blinks again and the wolf devours some poor man whole, licking her lips with a _malicious appetite._

Doug tries to move, to run, _HE WANTS OUT._ He's not into this, he _doesn't want this_, who cares if he's seeing an illusion or reality: he just knows that this place is bad news. For once his paranoia was justified, it was trying to war_n him that he was going to be eaten by a wolf and chewed and drugged and beaten and you failed you failed you're lost you're weak go kill yourself-_

"SHUT UP!" Doug shouts, smacking a wolf in his immediate vision, giving it a vicious slap to the cheek.

He blinks and sees a different figure approach. A_ man, with thick features and dashing red rivulets of hair_ that seem to coagulate in a blood red pattern. He blinks again before noticing freckles, glasses... And a white, Aperture lab coat.

The fellow in front of him, however, is not Craig.

Douglas's eyebrows shoot up so far that his _eyes begin to sting_ as the surrounding smoke physically impacts with them. He blinks and coughs, backing away, as a drunken _Wheatley takes a step_ forward, one fist outstretched, the other _wrapped around the slim form_ of a different she-wolf. This one is a little tougher, with a darker pelt and terrifying _yellow eyes_. Its sharp teeth click in its throat, it looks ready to murder.

_No! NO! IT'S HIM!_

"YOU GOT ME FIRED!" Doug shouts, throwing his hands up to his defense as Wheatley advances. The crowd of she-wolves and howling males has silenced; the _pack forming a ring around the scuffle_ that is about to take place.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" He says, backing up as _the howling beasts approach._ Wheatley isn't the person slowly walking toward Doug, Wheatley has become a vicious canine ready to _charge and snap and tear_ at his jugular. Doug backs up but the ring begins to growl.

It starts off slow, at first. The growling is_ rumbly and deep_ throated, sounding out _tenor notes around the whole_ "lounge" before picking up into a rough snarl. Tongues lap up the taste _of fire on their snouts an_d the claws stretch and flex into maniacal fingers, then back again.

The collective audience suddenly quiets, taking in one last breath of fresh air and silence.

_Then they start yelling a myriad of curses and cheers, encouragement and wisdom, rage and awe and fear and pride. Every emotion and every sound is violent, powerful, all encompassing, and each new cry silences the next. The wave of sound crashes against itself and roars to deafening heights with each passing second._

They don't care what the fi_ght is for, or why it's here, or who's fighting. Even Craig is in that cheering squabble, howling along with the rest of the intoxicated crowd. He's had six drinks already. His eyes burn with leaden fire as his heart yearns to burst from its vessels and ventricles to beat in time with the heavy metal music echoing through D_oug's head. Every second the fiasco escalates, Doug's fear intensifies to a new degree. Passion and anxiety blend into something new, no longer a paranoid suspicion, but a deadly gamble with the _devils of the Red Ribbon Gentleman's Lounge._

_Doug aims the first punch at Wheatley's jaw in self defense._

Wheatley responds with an uppercut as tumultuous applause erupts. Needing no other motivation the bar goers begin clawing at themselves and gnawing at each other's entrails. Tooth and claw _whoosh_ and_ cling!_ off of each other, gnashing and smashing with deadly precision and rough estimation. Drunken _adrenal vapor mixes with the air_, giving the fight a new level of potency. The she wolves fight the hardest, absolutely demolishing all in their path.

But Douglas is a different matter altogether. _His hellish eyes have glazed and inflamed as madness and self-control and repression and paranoia all come out in deadly blows on Wheatley's smug face._ The usual sensation of antigravity is blasted away by several shotguns and then cleansed by contact explosives. _Doug's whole body shakes in the shock of each blow to the Brit's corporeal existence._

Wheatley, though weak, is fast, too. _While Doug rains his blows down in cascades of fire, Wheatley grabs for the nearest weapons, broken plastic pipes, chairs, cups, the she-wolf, anything_ and everything is hurled at Douglas in between punches. He dodges as many blows as he dishes out, and he soon gains the upper hand, aiming an uppercut to Doug's jaw as his own body begins protesting in pain.

The brawl rages a few more minutes as the routine exercise of caution and courtesy is abandoned in favor of _raw anger_ and muscular strength. The resulting catharsis _enraptures all of the wolves_ as Doug's eyes roll and his mouth froths with spittle.

Suddenly someone pulls a... _gun..?_ Maybe it's a lighting strike in an empty meadow? Rain streams down, blood red and sticky.

A bang. Then a light. _Then he hears nothing._ No more sights of gruesome wreckage assail his vision.

He finally has a clear head for fifty seconds or so. He needs to make this count.

What is he doing? Why is he fighting a ginger man? What happened to make him stoop so low?

Doug cries as questions hit him, hidden by reason in the few precious seconds prior. But he has no time to grief. When this reprieve is over he will have to save himself, while enduring the torments of the voices.

_I've got to find the curtain and get out. Who cares where Craig is. OUT is the best thing for me right now._

Douglas suddenly feels a spasm wrack his body. His eyes roll and his nostrils flare. His one dilated pupil sputters to life, flickering between a vision of reality _clouded in smoke _and a streaked image of a canine takeover, a bloody war between desire and desolation. He cannot tell which is real, but he knows his car is not in the meadow with the wolves. He rushes into the other vision, running and colliding with several figures on the way. Zombified bodies, moving too slow to keep up with his illusions, continue to bog him down. He cannot speak, his throat is parched, his vocal cords are stretched thin, his ears ring and his eyes water and his skin is numb and tingly and_ why doesn't he just kill himself now and get it over with?_

_ENOUGH! ENOUGH! THE DOOR! THE DOOR! THE WAY OUT!_

He dives through into the bar section without a glance at the pandemonium he's imagined behind him.

The crowd looks between the crazy man who just beat up an innocent waiter, and said waiter lying in a mangled heap on the ground.

"... The door..." Douglas coughs at last, his final words echoing around him as he succumbs to sleepy confusion, slamming into a random car and collapsing on the ground. He cries out to the sky with a howl rivaling those he just heard.

Except, there were no wolves.


	9. Incarceration

**Author's Asides: Fun fact! I start all of these chapters with nothing but a title, the letter q, the direction I want to go in, and lots, and lots, and lots of terrible ideas. I'm like my own intelligence dampening sphere! Or fact core, if that's how you want to look at it. Let's get to the terrible ideas, then!**

* * *

His head hurt everywhere. His ears, and thus his sense of balance, were scrambled eggs. The odd white noise he imagined hearing was not doing him any favors, nor was his bodily position. His aniscoria-wrought eyes were protesting violently, even behind their safe, lashy covers. His neck was cocked at a very painful angle and his nose was running all over. His cheeks were sallow and his lips were cracked as if an earthquake had split them. The tops of his ears were quite cold, too.

He'd passed out, right there in the parking lot, and nobody had noticed. Small wonder he hadn't caught frostbite, yet.

_Scratch that,_ he thought, testing his numb fingers._ I've definitely got frostbite._

Nothing would have pleased him more to just suddenly be somewhere warm, safe, soft and quiet. To just suddenly appear in his bed, under the blankets in his dingy apartment, would be a godsend. As it was, he had two options.

Drive himself there, ha-ha, what a jest, _no, _or find someone to take him home. Well, if he could move and convince someone to help. Unfortunately... there was only Craig, in that terrible place, and he was not going back in for anything. Maybe he could call a cab? But that would be really expensive, calling a cab all the way from the city.

Doug's frail mind scrambles to confront the conundrum before him as a nice, safe and probably warm vehicle arrives on the scene to help, its blue and red lights flashing on and off like a beacon of hope. Doug faintly recognizes the lights and dimly recalls their meaning. _Help._

"Officerrrr-" he slurs with difficulty, his tongue refusing to cooperate, holding up his hand. Every part of him protests from the effort of these simple actions.

"What's with this guy?" says a hefty man, stepping from the car with his partner. The hefty one is drinking a cup of coffee, after all, it_ is_ 3 in the morning.

"Hell if I know. I'll go check him out, you go inside and see how it's holding up."

The second officer, a muscular black man, nods and walks into the tavern.

"H-help..." Doug splutters with minimal force. The officer kneels to approach him at eye level.

"Sir, calm down. I understand a traumatic experience has taken place in the tavern and I can assure you that you have nothing to worry about... Do you need me to call someone?" He adds, noticing how young Douglas is. He also faintly takes into account the lab coat and name tag, but doesn't look at the name very closely.

"Cr-craiiig... oh... in there..." he says, struggling to find the words amidst his nervous, scattered brain.

The officer takes a sniff. There's no scent of alcohol on the boy's breath, that's good, but there's definitely something drugged up about him.

"Sir, are you aware that drinking underage is a federal offense?"

"Haven't... no no no no, sirrr..."

He interprets this as 'no, I'm not drunk, thanks officer.' He admires the attempt at politeness the suffering child can muster from the depths of his mind.

"Do you need medical attention?"

"N-need... my medi...cine..."

"What kind of prescriptions do you take, son?"

Doug can't manage to grunt out a feeble reply as the other cop runs out of the building, hand at his radio. "REQUESTING BACKUP, COPY? We've got one helluva situation down here," the cop pauses. "Sam, you gotta help me out here, the place is a madhouse."

Sam uncoils his knees from the ground and joins his partner. Maybe it's just their minds connecting from all the time they've spent together on the force, but he immediately understands the concern and, surprisingly, fear that has welled up into Micheal's face.

"Right, Mike, I'm going in. Get this poor man in the car, he's freezing."

Sam draws in a cold breath and runs into the tavern. Mike wastes very little time in grabbing Doug and hefting him to his feet. He's a born natural for tough situations like these. Doug's feet do their best to hinder their progress, but the officer is strong enough to maintain his grip. He half-pushes-half-carries Douglas into the car, setting him in the backseat and closing the door before getting in himself to turn on the heater.

He rummages around in the glove panel, then finds a small, woolen blanket, tossing it over the poor man. This car hasn't had barred windows in a long time, thanks to the lackluster state funding, so this poses very little issue. He hands Doug his coffee, holding the cup out for him to take a sip. He needs all the warmth he can get.

Doug doesn't process the situation. He stares blankly before his eyes roll back into his head and he loses consciousness.

Mike immediately calls his little radio for an ambulance.

* * *

For the second time in a month, Doug wakes up in a hospital. This time, he's not bandaged, only hooked up to an IV drip. His vitals_ chug chug chug_ away, reliable as clockwork. There's a note on his bedside table, but Doug doesn't notice it right away. He still has a killer headache.

He barely manages to sit up. The note shifts, whispering as a little bit of wind from some air vent hits it. Doug blinks several times, his uneven eyes adjusting to the light. He's officially decided, he hates waking up in strange places. The cold sterility activates some deep recess of his brain, the area where his panic and fear likes to spend its days. He takes shuddering, quick breaths before hearing the _beep beep beep_ing of the monitor increase drastically.

He turns to look at the device, making every attempt to calm himself down. He suddenly sees the note, and next to it, a single rounded package.

He reads the little memo.

"Sorry, Doug. This is my fault. I'm covering the bill. Maybe this can make up for it?

-Craig Preston"

Doug picks up the package, unraveling the red plastic ribbon sealing it shut. He opens it gently.

Craig gave him a little set of paints and paintbrushes. They look brand new, and they all fit together in a small, plastic case. He grins, flipping the note over and opening the box. He has the urge to bring something new to life.

His strokes on the little memo are shaky and pained, and his limbs creak with barely-quelled exhaustion, but he sees his arms at least _trying_ to do what they do best and working.

First a circle. Then a pointed line, and another. A ring inside the first circle, lighter in color. Then a set of lines all coming to one, shaky conclusion. He just needs to pick a color for the eye.

A cheery, maroon personality core is staring back at him. He sets it aside, leaving his frustration and confusion with it.

Douglas grins, pressing the button on the side of his bed to call a nurse. Now that he's feeling at least marginally better, he wants to figure out what's been going on here.

It takes a few minutes before a sprightly blonde approaches his bedside, brandishing a clipboard and a grin. "Hello, Dr. Rattman. How are you feeling this afternoon?"

"...Afternoon? Ma'am, I'm a little confused. I feel all right, but can you p-please tell me how I got here?"

"Oh, you were at the Chuck's Tavern incident last night, sir," she says, her voice becoming grim. "There was some kind of bar fight, one man apparently beat up a waiter while yelling some nonsense. The cops went searching for a culprit, but nobody could identify him. There weren't even any cameras. Everyone was blaming everyone else, but they know it was someone with dark hair and that's about it."

"Thank you, ma'am. Do you know when I'll be able to check out so I can get my car?"

"Oh, well, we'll have Dr. Lim come in and take a look 'atcha, but if you're feeling OK it'll be sometime later today. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you."

"Alright! There's a remote on the table if you get bored, and if you need anything, just ask! My name's Melanie, by the way, but you can call me Mel. Bye!"

She twirles away, her blonde pigtail dancing with the movement. Doug can't help but shiver as the door closes enthusiastically at her request. She felt so _inspired_, she really did, and her excitement for life is contagious, despite the emotional bombshell she'd just dropped.

_The cops saw the evidence of the fight, make no mistake. But they don't know who did it. If I stay well enough away, I can get off scot-free! But... is that the right thing to do? I... beat up someone... hold... on..._

His dopey grin vanishes.

"I b-b..." he mumble, the enormity washing over him. Tiny little Doug, used to simply being poked and prodded by life in all the wrong places, a bystander as the world turns in its journey... he beat up some poor innocent within an inch of his life.

How is he supposed to feel? He... doesn't really sense anything forthcoming in his mind, but he knows he needs to feel something. A small part of him, incarcerated in his mind, gives him a terrifying answer.

_You should feel proud. You're not weak anymore._

The realization hits home _hard._ He feels... good. Strong... and scared of himself.

_Don't be a wuss, Doug. Ignore your other feelings. Just let the good part sink in for a while... go on with life. Nobody ever has to know._

He shakes violently, determined to get out of this hospital as soon as he can. He doesn't like that little voice in his head... because unlike all of the others, it is his own. It's pride is unwarranted, unjust, evil... but there, and real.

_You can become so much more. You are a real man, not that empty shadow Harriet fired, not just a background element of people's lives... You are Douglas Rattman, and you can raise Hell and draw it to its knees. Be proud._

Those two hollow words, be proud. They are terrifying, all encompassing.

And the tiny, malevolent voice of this new conscious scares him.

* * *

Craig sits at his desk, reviewing the schematics again. He looks at the circuits, the cold hard drive, the methods to the madness of this imperfect AI.

His deep thoughts are focused on Douglas. His hangover is still there, doing what it does best; hanging over him. Douglas is too much of a liability, now that he can potentially become the focus of the law. If this gets connected with Aperture, and it will, then the company is so deep in hot water that he may as well kiss his life goodbye now. All of this? It should be illegal, all of it, it's barely running as is. He has no idea if the project will be finished in time, how in God's name is he going to get everything done on the cores before-

He stops. He can't think along these lines for much longer. His iron hard focus descends upon the papers.

And the answer appears. He sees it, plain as day. No harebrained schemes, no secondary ethical struggle going on in his mind. Some small part of his head clicks everything into place.

The portals.

Why were they working so heavily on the project? Because Cave demanded it. Why did they still do AI research and portal testing? Because _CAROLINE_ demanded it. She was a woman with a far greater head on her shoulders, attached to Cave as she was. She had- has, reason, much more of it. He needs to see Caroline, and ask her about the portal device. Tech like that, if released or demonstrated to the public, it could wipe the slate clean again. There had been over thirty years of testing going on. It had to be ready, it HAD to be.

And a different idea is slowly taking shape in his head too. Thinking about how portals worked, quantum tunneling and all... it had another application. The project, elegant and simple, needed organization. There was no way to use the systems, no way to utilize the disk operating system... unless...

YES! YES! Yes, it was all becoming clear. A vision, sharper and clearer than most of his before was taking shape. Right now, right here, Craig is experiencing an elevated state, his mind working furiously as he scribbles notes about his concept and its execution.

And maybe, he'll be able to get rid of Douglas's new, infuriating liability in the process.


	10. Clearer and Brighter

"Caroline, you're going to love this. This idea... is genius," Craig begins, Atlas standing helpfully at his side. Antony is downstairs, working on the project with the others and convincing them of the plan. This harebrained scheme of Cave's is about to get a complete overhaul, as soon as the pitch finishes.

"What's the fuss about? Don't keep me in suspense," says Caroline, straightening her trademark ascot absentmindedly. She's got her own problems to deal with, namely a fussy toddler in a crib at home. The babysitter has been calling the line non-stop because the child simply refuses to eat her vegetables, simply throwing them all over the floor. Whatever _this_ new problem is, it better be worth the increasingly infernal frustration.

"The project has been... somewhat slow. We know now that we can't ingrain Cave into the coding. It's- well, it's more trouble than it's worth. You understand what I mean."

Caroline nods heavily, thinking about Craig's reasons for bringing up this topic again. "I do."

"It's going to be very difficult to market too, this new business model. Cave wants to make our business a shining example, something so smart and unfathomable that Black Mesa just won't be able to compete anymore. His idea, the Smart Office and Disk Operating System... having a human in charge of it is going to upset the hippies. Especially since it's Cave.

"We have to make sure they don't know that Cave is in the device. We think-" he glances at Atlas, "That we can put Cave in the computer a different way, and get more out of the SOaDOS then ever before. We call this new idea... the GLaDOS."

"GLaDOS?" she asks patiently. "What does it stand for?"

"Genetic Lifeform and Disk Operating System. It's going to maintain all of the DOS functions we've put in it, instead of using it to predict the future... we can use it to control the entire facility."

"The entire facility? How can a DOS control a facility?"

"We'll give it access to some mechanical arms, the ability- hold on, I'm getting ahead of myself. Here's the gist of this plan.

"Step one; put more effort into the quantum tunneling device. Now I know it sounds crazy, but hear us out. I'm throwing it all on the line, here. Our eventual goal is to distract the public, and Black Mesa, with the portal project. A perfect cover story; having the ability to shoot portals at silicate surfaces will slowly become popular enough to focus everyone's attention away from AI. Not to mention, after so much testing, it's bound to be close to ready for release."

Caroline was about to make an argument, but Atlas picked up where Craig left off, a partner in the shared vision.

"Step two, we'll improve the brain mapping process with some expendable subjects and the personality cores. The cores can be made compatible with the DOS, so if we get any successful cores loaded, then we'll have some preparation for step three."

"And step three," finishes Craig, "We put Cave inside a core. We can perfect everything so that he'll be perfectly safe, and have as much time as necessary as we reap the rewards from step one. It will be child's play from there to put him in the GLaDOS, giving him control over the entire facility. And if that goes wrong, well, we can even build our _OWN_ AI out of his existing code, change it a little, just so nothing blows up."

Caroline's mind, just like theirs, is coming closer to touching the brink of this vision. But she sees something else. "You're saying we use the release of portal technology to the public as publicity bait, then we work on everything the public would ordinarily detain us from doing, and then we can put Cave in a core on an unlimited budget?"

"Yes, exactly! We can pitch this idea to Cave too. In fact, I'll go right-" Atlas begins, darting off. Craig nods and goes to follow-

_"Not so fast, boys!" _Caroline barks, curtailing any more arguments with anger and unfathomable grace. Caroline was never very chipper to the lab boys- or anyone, for that matter. "It's... a solid plan, I'll give you that. I was skeptical of the project right off the bat, you know. I like these suggestions, your ideas can definitely improve the DOS. But there's one major flaw. The portal device isn't ready. We need more testing before that can ever happen."

Craig's smile fades as he stares dumbly at her. He wasn't expecting a no.

"Come again?"

"The portal device is not ready. We need much more testing."

"How long has it been? Caroline, it works! You're... you're deluding yourself if you think otherwise!"

"It's not ready_, that's my final word._ I've got no problem ordaining the changes to the SOaDOS system and AI technology, but the fact remains; you can't market the tunneling device. You need to keep working undercover."

Craig's mind snaps, his neck bulge pops out, Atlas sees all of the warning signs- but there's categorically no way to stop Craig when he gets like this. If you mess with the bull, you get the horns. And Caroline is waving a big red "NO" flag in front of Craig's flaming red, pudgy face. His perfect vision, soiled? _Never_. His nose and ears spew steam as his jaw clenches and his fists ball up.

"WHAT COULD POSSIBLY NEED TO BE TESTED ON THE PORTAL DEVICE? WOMAN, DO YOU HAVE ANY CONCEPT OF HOW QUALITY CONTROL WORKS? WE'RE NOT SOME DINKY LITTLE BLACK MESA RIPOFF, WE'RE GODDAMN APERTURE!" Spittle rains from his mouth as he screams, lunacy working its way up from the boiling rage in his stomach to his uncontrollable mouth. Atlas moves to calm him down, but does not manage to stop the tirade, merely block her desk from the oncoming spit.

"The device isn't ready," She says, calmly, refusing to react. She's used to seeing men so hyped up and blinded by success that Craig cannot phase her. Craig's eyes practically catch fire.

"WE _ARE_ READY TO USE THE DEVICE! CAROLINE, YOU _MORON_! THE DEVICE CAN'T BE ANY BETTER! IT'S PERFECT! WE'VE GOT THE FUTURE IN OUR HANDS, THE FUTURE OF APERTURE, AMERICA, THE WORLD! AND YOU WANT TO HOLD UP THE PROGRESS, THE FUTURE,** THE SCIENCE** FOR _BUREAUCRACY_ AND A LITTLE MORE HOPE THAT THE FEW SORRY HOBOS YOU MANAGED TO SCROUNGE UP CAN WORK UP MORE THAN A FART WHEN TRYING TO SOLVE PUZZLES BUILT FOR OLYMPIANS! SORRY HONEY, BUT THE STATUS QUO ISN'T THE SAME AS IN THE STONE AGE! WE'VE GOT MORE COMPETITION THAN YOUR PRETTY LITTLE BRAIN SEEMS TO BE ABLE TO HANDLE! STEP DOWN FROM YOUR MOTHERF-"

Atlas does the only logical thing and hits him over the head. Craig silences and turns _verrrry_ slowly towards his old friend.

Keyword here, old.

"What did you just do? Atlas... what_ did YOU JUST DO?!_"

Atlas runs as fast as his legs can carry him in the direction of the elevator just as Cave finally wheels into the office. His face is just is red, and he is seething with fury. Nobody, absolutely NOBODY talks to Caroline like that. She's the backbone of the company, of his work, his life. THIS FOOL DOESN'T KNOW WHAT'S COMING!

"_YOU PIECE OF GARBAGE_! HOW DARE YOU TALK TO CAROLINE LIKE THAT? YOU MESSED WITH THE WRONG MAN FOR THE LAST TIME, CRAIG PRESTON! YOU'RE FIRED!"

Silence reigns for a few milliseconds as Craig develops a response. Caroline's eyebrows rise ever so slightly in fear for her physical being. Cave has either just done them all a community service, or made a _HUGE_ mistake.

"FAT LOT OF GOOD THAT DOES YOU!" comes his deranged reply. "**FUCK YOU!**" he shouts, throwing his middle fingers up in the air before running down the stairs, propelled by rage. Shoe meets tile within even less time as Caroline hits the security button. His vision is perfect. And he'll made damn sure that it comes true.

* * *

"Have a nice day, sir," comes Mel's cheerful response. Doug nods, waves, and sets off in the direction of the door. His thoughts drift, just as they always do, back to Aperture.

_What's been going on since yesterday? Oh-! I never called in sick! I'm screwed if I don't get in there right this minute!_

He rushes down the stairs, looking left and right before realizing that his car is definitely not here. He's got to head back to the scene of the crime if he wants to make it to Aperture as soon as possible.

He runs, making no attempt to hide his concern as he races down the sidewalk. Some onlookers from passing cars pause with their thoughts, wondering about his urgency, but pay it no mind, continuing with their normal, tedious lives. Doug recognizes that he's at La Plaza Azul, and that a few well-placed rights and lefts might get him to his destination.

Thank god he's had his medication. He clearly pictures the road layout in his head, and he races down the sidewalk, barely waiting for traffic to slow as he presses the "Pedestrian Crossing" button on the stop light beside him. Too many seconds elapse as the light moves from green, to yellow, then red.

His feet pump up, churning dust as he races across the road onto another sidewalk, leading into a winding forest trail. He's close.

Rubber sneaker meets grass as he steps off the path, following a trail roughly cut by the asphalt at his side. Everything leaps out of his way as he darts around tight corners and crosses paved rivers of concrete as if they are inches across. His velocity reaches almost terminal levels, heightened by his naturally long legs and urgent manner.

Eons seem to have passed, but the seedy pub comes into view. Thankfully, its salt tang isn't olfactible, so he breathes heavily in the parking lot. His vision is slightly cloudy but he manages to shake it off. His eyes hungrily scan the lot, until he sees his car. He grabs his keys from his pocket, unlocks it, and jumps in, all in one motion. He starts the car and breathes deeply, trying to cleanse his senses. He can't let his fear and worries distract him on the road. The last thing he needs is for another cop to pull him over, recognize him, and throw him behind bars. Calmly, he puts his feet on the accelerator.

The drive doesn't calm him down much, but it does relax his muscles marginally. He reflects on what to say before a sudden thought disturbs his careful planning.

_Something feels... very, very wrong._

His paranoia, unbidden, is swelling in his throat. Just because it was trying to be helpful last night, however, doesn't make him want to respect it now. A sense of primal fear is building somewhere... but what is it?

_Calm down. Calm down, it's OK. Focus on the road. Just get to work, focus on the road... d-don't panic. Right._

Driving to Aperture has never taken so long in his life. The thirty minutes of his ordinary commute are not cooperating, they are elongating into a mess of confusion and worry. What was it that was grinding at his thoughts, just below the surface?

He was in no mood to investigate, given the recent happenings. It took all of his effort to avoid the usual hypothetical speculation he prided himself on. _Simple as that, _he thought,_ it's just speculation. No evidence whatsoever. Nothing is wrong. Now, shut up and drive, stupid brain._

Doug mercifully is able to get through the wheat fields and into the parking lot before his head explodes. He parks, leaps out, and pauses in front of the door. He opens it, calmly, as if he has just returned from lunch. Uh... a very long lunch.

Nobody stops him, they all bustle on their way, the innumerable bees running through the hive for their queen. He, too, joins the throng, sneaking back into the workshop he normally inhabits. Craig isn't there, nor are most of his things. Again, however, he finds a quickly scrawled note. Judging from the number of spots caused by broken pencil lead and the darkness of the writing, it looks as if he was angry.

"Doug, I got fired. No use hiding it. Just keep working on the cores. See Atlas, he knows about my plan. You have to continue it, for me. Atlas, screw you. Help Doug, or I swear... Cave, double screw you. And Caroline? _Suck it._

-Craig Preston."

Doug's eyes widen. Craig... fired? _How?_ He's so intelligent, so rational, maybe a little temperamental at times... well, a lot of temperamental... just- Well, he was emotional about things when he was angry, which wasn't too... well, so what if it was often? Was that a crime? He's a good man. He doesn't deserve to be fired... right?

Doug only has one hope; he has to figure out what "the plan" is.

Douglas shuffles the note into a drawer on his desk. Cave or Caroline probably wouldn't like being told to "suck it" and screw themselves, and by extension, they might take it out on Doug. He cautiously strolls out the door, looking for Atlas or even Antony among the sea of white coats.

That reminds him, he'd left his... where was it? Oh, that's right. He's wearing it. His scattered mind chastises itself, then carries his body out onto the catwalks. He barely feels the rush of crossing these high platforms anymore, his original fears have vanished. His only goal: get to Atlas.

Atlas is nowhere to be seen, however.

He fingers the Alpha ID card in his pocket. Should he investigate the lower levels?

No, that seems more than a little risky. He could ask someone, anyone...

Dr. Tremblay passes by him, bustling along like all the others, his balding scalp shining in the light as if it is a waxed surfboard. He's not Doug's favorite scientist- actually, far from it, but it's someone he knows. That's more than enough.

He chases after him, barely managing to catch up on one of the catwalks headed towards the area where the project is being kept.

"Dr. Tremblay! Tremblay!" he shouts, held back as a few people pass on the catwalk. Tremblay turns around and sees Douglas calling out before bustling forward, motioning Doug to follow.

He doesn't bother processing the odd behavior as he chases the scientist, but the lovely thoughts in his head entertain the concept anyway.

_Where is he taking me?_

* * *

Dr. Tremblay stops in front of the room where the project is being held. He can hear the tell-tale buzz of monitors and devices behind the door. He turns and faces Doug, quite unsure of _what_ Craig's apprentice is doing here.

"What are you doing here? What is it?"

"Craig, he's- have you heard?" Doug manages to cough out.

"No? What is it, kid? Take a deep breath, I'm not going anywhere."

Doug follows this advice before continuing. "Craig got fired...s-somehow."

Tremblay blinks. "Looks like you're out of a job too, then..."

"What?! ME!?"

"Yeah. You were working for him, not necessarily for the rest of Aperture. Unless someone takes you back on as an intern- and I'll be honest, it's not likely- you're out of a paycheck."

Douglas takes more deep breaths, processing the information.

"But he... he left me a n-note... he said I needed to continue work on the personality cores. Atlas has some k-kind of plan... apparently... It's all written down."

"So? Go find him."

"I've got n-no idea where he is. Do you have any idea where he might be? Any sort of clue?"

"Hmm. I'll check the project wing. If he's not in here, you're on your own. I'm sorry, Doug."

He opens the door, perfectly ready to leave the poor simpering child where he is... until he sees _Cave_ coming up the catwalk. He can tell, specifically because a number of scientists are leaping out of the way, white coats flying aside.

"Douglas, actually, changed my mind. Cave's coming this way, he sees you, you're toast. Er, just for a couple seconds, I'm going to pretend you're my intern. Don't say anything."

Doug nods, barely performing the action before Cave's wheelchair is at the door. He blanches.

"Hey there, Dr. Tremblay. How's the project going?"

"Quite well, sir. Just checking in?"

"Not quite. I'm shutting 'er down."

Doug and Tremblay stare. "W-what?" they reply in unison, one audible and the other in his mind.

"Yes, whole damn thing's a waste of time. If you lab boys think you can just up and change stuff in the middle of working on it then there's no point in continuing. I'm shutting the place down."

"B-but, Mr. Johns-"

"QUIET!" Cave shouts. Tremblay silences. "Caroline agrees, whole thing's a complete waste. As of right now, you two get to be in charge of the incendiary lemon department! Sound fun?"

Silence meets him. He chuckles. "Just kidding. MAN, did that feel good. You should totally have seen your faces. Heh, that was great. Actually I'm here announcing a minor change to the SOaDOS... or as we'll now be calling it, GLaDOS."

"Excuse me?" Doug mumbles, ignoring Tremblay's previous warning.

"Yep! The SOaDOS system needs a little bit of tweaking. We're going to shift our efforts from the DOS-whatever to the GLa part. We're gonna start making some artificial intelligence! If you had to ask me, we should have been doing this stuff years ago. Pretty cool, right?" he says expectantly.

"Ab-absolutely, sir! We'll get right on it!" Tremblay adds, stepping through the door to announce Cave's incoming arrival.

Cave gives Doug a once over, reflecting his odd eyes, dark hair, recent bruises and scrapes as well as his generally disheveled appearance. This guy must be a hard worker if he doesn't waste time taking care of himself.

"Keep up the good work, er, Doug. Who are you interning for?"

"...Dr. Tremblay, sir."

"Eh... young man like you, you've got a bright head on your shoulders. Not made of the same bland stuff as the others. You make sure to keep things interesting, down here, right?"

"Of course, sir!"

"Oh, all you lab boys, just telling me what I want to hear. Say something original! Come on, I'm interested in what goes on in that head of yours."

Doug briefly reflects on what to say. "...Something original."

Cave laughs. "Not a surprise, but not exactly what I was expecting! I like you, kid. Come on in here."

He wheels into the project room, Doug close behind. He slides off to the side next to Tremblay.

"It's official," he whispers. "I'm apparently interning for you."

Tremblay groans, but quietly. "Then you might as well know, my name is Henry. I'd prefer you use that one."

Doug nods. He notices Dr. Tremblay's lack of "spark," the quality he observed a few weeks ago when he entered the facility for the second time. Henry seems... disinterested with the world around him right now. The odd respect that Doug used to feel in his presence has begun dissipating... but why?

"OK, lab boys! I've come to announce some changes to the project!" Cave shouts, stopping the workforce. The room is deafeningly silent. This is one of those extremely rare times where Cave addresses his minions in person, the first time since the incident.

Oh, how Doug would quickly learn to hate that gruff, brash voice.


	11. Cave's Little Rat Problem

**Fandom Based Intellectual Speculation Sphere Beta**

**Or, in Layman's Terms, Book Two**

"How are you today, Doug?" Henry says, tugging at his necktie so as to loosen it. He dons his lab coat with minimal effort. That was Dr. Tremblay: efficient in all things, spirited and intelligent, except when mortally afraid. There are very few things that scare him, but Doug knows how to pinpoint the signs. He is quite skilled at reading his coworker's attitude. After all, they've been working together nonstop for three years.

"I'm doing OK, sir. Just seeing what we can do with this model to improve it."

Tremblay glances at the schematics. Unlike Doug, Henry is able to understand such things at a glance as opposed to during heavy concentration. The man is renowned amongst his compatriots in the field of science. His finger traces the edge of the paper, catching as it turns each corner before smacking on one of the coolant pipes, startling Douglas.

"This thing could get easily detached if the core falls. Try curving it differently."

Doug makes a tch-ing noise in irritation with himself, and follows with a feverish annotation in the margin. He goes back to his observation as Tremblay grabs something from an adjacent table.

"The daily paper? What's some crappy mainstream media doing down h-"

He pauses and blinks. He refocuses, looks at the paper, and squints ominously.

LOCAL ENGINEERING FACILITY ABUSES WORKFORCE- INVESTIGATION PENDING

"They found that this morning, with a cheap red ribbon tied on it," Doug says. "No idea who put it there, and no visible evidence, either."

Again, Tremblay squints. This is his typical sign of irritation and disdain. "Motherf- nevermind. Science can handle a few setbacks..."

Tremblay's body loses all of the enthusiasm his brief respite put back in. He pulls a device out from the cabinet to his left. There are two objects stacked there as well, an unmarked cube from testing and a sleek, white-plated tripedal elipse. The device has a small black concave dot in the center of its form.

This is Aperture Science's first turret. Well, the second, but nobody can count a pile of smoldered rubble science. Except, of course, Cave Johnson.

Again, Douglas refocuses, his tenacious attitude pouring into the device in front of him. Where can he conserve space to put in more processing power? What can he trim, improve, weaponize? How can he further the almighty concepts and conditional powers of science?

Douglas shrugs to himself, in his head. Just like all of the other workers here, every ounce of thought in his head pours out into the papers before him, praising science, damning Black Mesa, working alongside the machine, etcetera, et-frikkin-cetera.

There's no alternative anymore. PR was replaced by robots last month, and aside from guzzling ten gallons of oil per hour, the department is working killer overtime. The only problem is that the public doesn't care about how deadly Aperture's lazers are compared to Black Mesa.

_They'll probably get transferred into the testing division soon._

The testing division is a myth to Douglas. He's seen neither hide nor hair of it, and it's likely better he keeps it that way. Despite his unlimited clearance, he hasn't ventured much deeper into Aperture. What he does know is that the company has building up since the fifties or so, and that thirty years of progress goes a very long way down, and that thirty years of progress includes a dose of deadly testing, too. Portal testing has been ongoing since the shower curtain days and isn't getting any safer.

AI work has been progressing rapidly. Cores, Doug's main faculty, have learned to respond to most stimuli and spontaneous explosions are down 53%. The current core model, 824.6.1, is stable and doesn't require any brain mapping in order to function. Of course, it doesn't think independently yet, but there's people working on it.

The GLaDOS system is going to be put online quite soon. Unfortunately, that's going to require a victim- er, contribution to science.

_There are no victims, there are no victims... thinking about it makes you one... no, Doug, core, core... think about the cores. Coolant pipes, cogs, hard drive, new firmware, vic- no no no..._

Doug barely contains his thoughts, but he does. The cameras in the room are very attentive, and the robotic Security division can identify certain distressed emotion patterns within seconds of their existence. The "Productive Worker Initiative" replaces all such naysayers within two to six business days. Thinking about negative circumstances is the fastest way to get yourself stuck in the testing chambers, even more so if your position is replaceable by androids.

He slides the papers aside. Though he's trying to be productive 24/7, he has a few other tasks he wants to complete, namely catching up on GLaDOS's condition, as is required of all employees.

"How has the project been going? Think they need me on the team full time yet?"

"Eh, I'm not sure. the mainframe is ready, but... the troubleshooting team working on the DOS isn't happy yet. They told me they were having serious issues with the call and response system. Cave told them to get ready to boot tomorrow anyway. I doubt it will happen, though."

"No surprises there," Doug says, turning to the core in his hands. "Science marches on." And so does his work.

* * *

**"The teting adminitrator would like to document that now i a good time to reboot, a the backward and curvy z key i no longer working on hi/her extremely crappy laptop. Productivity i down 20% and chapter will be coming hortly. Thi i a friendly reminder that expoure to hitty grammar i not a part of thi tet," **reads an ominous yellow message on the room's two amber monitors.

"What the hell is wrong with it this time?" asks a gaunt man, pale and shaky from lack of sleep.

"It insists that the S key is broken in its input range," replies his strawberry-blonde assistant, quaking with something more closely resembling fear. His required testing is scheduled for next Wednesday, or it will be, if the GLaDOS doesn't go live very soon. Too much is expected of him all at once for things to turn out in his favor.

"Why is it being problematic today? Of all days, today- never mind. Put the code in again," Atlas responds.

Antony types the response string of 0s and 1s for the key in question. The action is effortless as his practiced hands flick over the keys to choose the right input.

**"ssssssssSSSsssssssssssssssssSSSssssssssssssSssssssssssssssssszszsxda Key input not recognized."**

Atlas sighs, entering the code on his own keyboard. The same message reappears. For the billionth time.

"...Did you try asking it nicely?" pipes up a voice in the doorway. A bespectacled, charismatic figure plops down in front of the two. He's become renowned for his insight in the last few years, not only as an invaluable asset to the project, but also for his incredibly fast mouth.

"Wheatley, s-sir! What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be working on the brain-mapping?"

"I'm on break. But, even if I can't contribute there I can certainly investigate the happenings here or something else to further science. You know, expecting a different output when putting in the same input is a futile operation, yeah?" Wheatley pauses, inhales and continues. "Did you hear that the GLaDOS project is scheduled for next Thursday to be revealed to the public? NBo regulators! Nothin'! Bloody genius, I say. Really inspires faith in our mission statement. Well, of course you know, silly of me to ask, to be perfectly honest. And, I get the feeling, don't take me the wrong way, but I can tell that you two may or may not be slightly up to your eyeballs in work with this wretched thing? Yeah, probably. You think you can explain the problem so I can see if I can help?"

Atlas and Antony take a few minutes to process, before responding in unison: "It thinks the S key is broken."

Wheatley pushes Antony's rolling chair aside, causing an uncomfortable squeal to echo throughout the chamber. He pulls the computer closer and kneels. Atlas can barely question the action, what with the social awkwardness of it all and the speed with which it's conducted. He feels humbled... somehow.

"OK, just gotta push a couple flat bits! Psyche yourself up, really helps. So, is she very conversational, by the way? Just for reference," he says, spreading his jolly grin even wider. He barely waits for them to open their mouths. "Fine, fine, no matter, better get this done. Come on, Wheatley ol' chap, focus! Urrghhh... Gotta come up with an idea... Aha!"

He types a smiley face, then hits enter. No reply.

**"The enrichment center has not processed your command. Please rephrase your command for maximum understanding."**

"Bloody- It's a smile-grin! Come on!" He hits the keys again, the less-than carat symbol, three horizontal dashes, and some explanatory text.

**"Thank you for your feedback. Generating response in three... two... one..." **The screen fizzles out to static. Wheatley blushes in embarrassment, but before Atlas can question, the screen returns, sporting its amber glow.

**"Thank you, [Programmer name here]. In order to further science, can you assist in collecting and cataloguing more data? Y/N."**

Wheatley hits the Y key, turning to the men. "Well, there you go. See? It barely took any effort to teach it to like science. So, go at it! Go on, teach it! Anything and everything."

He turns and swaggers out of the room before anyone is able to comprehend. Had that taken actual skill, or had he BS-ed the whole thing? Who's to say?

Atlas shrugs and turns to his monitor. Antony rolls his chair back to his own screen. They begin feeding the device data, emptily giving it information about fields of grain, cakes, aquatic livelihood, logarithmic equations and the evil side of Black Mesa.

Wheatley smirks to himself a he walks out the door, glad he could contribute, and eager to return to his department- the mainframe itself. None of this software stuff if for him- he's the kind of man who works with his hands. He looks down at them mid thought. If he didn't have them, why, he'd surely die from boredom. If not having hands didn't kill him first, yeah...

Of course, caught up in himself, he misses the pair of bright eyes following him from within a ventilation shaft. The man inside the shaft snickers to himself as he chews a bologna sandwich he nabbed from someone's desk earlier. His coat is tattered at the edges and his hair is all over, but that doesn't matter. He has the whole facility wrapped around his finger.

_Aperture belongs to me. And when the rest of the world knows how convoluted this place is; I'll get away Scot-free. Not never... but now._

* * *

Craig could get used to this lifestyle. He can go anywhere, see everything without being seen. And this den of his? Perfect! He's got a little radio playing smooth jazz 24/7 and plenty of hiding spots. Hell, he can steal from Cave, if he really wants to. It's just a matter of getting the fat sap out of the office. Problem is, Cave is in there every second of his life. And camping out in the grates forever? Not fun. Definitely not fun. Particularly when the grate decides to pick the moment Cave looks up to make a massive creaking noise. That sort of moment is most definitely inopportune.

He stretches his arms back, letting the calming music wash over him. No lyrics, no cymbals or drums, just calmly rolling synth tunes. Bliss. The only thing marring the atmosphere is the poster lying in his peripheral vision. It reads:

COURAGE IS NOT THE ABSENCE OF FEAR

This one object has always confused him. Courage, by definition, WAS the absence of fear. Why should Aperture deny it? Why should this foul, industrialist loony-house happen to have some sort of false nugget of wisdom anywhere? The statement attempts to be profound, sure... but it has no meaning. Although, Cave never was one to create things with meaning. But, he's certainly no philosopher. Why should he have chosen this mantra above all others?

_Perhaps Cave just wants to be fearless. He could be trying to purposely distract people so he can rant about productivity or fire them for some sick kicks. He's sure as hell distracting me. Damn you, Cave, for whatever wisdom you think-_

Craig silences himself as he hears a noise. The door above him opens.

_OH CHRIST- I gotta hide! _Craig silently pads over to a pair of generators in the back. They produce enough noise to hide his breathing, and are wide enough that even HIS fat rump can sidle on behind the machine and out of sight. Although, in his defense, his stay within the walls has made him marginally thinner.

He waits with bated breath as he hears metal collide with metal._ Androids._

Two feet come into view. The feet do not move with grace, but for all intents and purposes move quickly enough to catch their prey.

Craig remembers seeing these things get built. Wheatley, in fact, built them. Despite his frequent vocal info-dumps, Wheatley is some kind of genius. The man can turn an RC Car into a machine gun, make its bullets sparkle, and make its remote control cover an infinite distance. At least, those were some of the first rumors he gleaned whilst in the vents. Just the sort of person he'd expect Cave to keep around; at arm's length, of course. His only other legacy is his vocal tact- rather, a lack thereof. That was when Craig wizened up to investigate the truth in the tall tales.

Wheatley made quite the second impression, as he was welding one of the first turrets. At least, he was making the mainframe. And as to how he fixed the lazer? Even Craig was at a loss. The ability to see lazer light in the air, the Tyndall Effect, is difficult to create so stably and for limited range. And good God, even though nobody was with him, Wheatley wouldn't shut up the whole time he was building it.

And then he saw the Androids happen. Very polygonal, roughly hewn collections of scrap metal, given all of the weapons their bodies can hold. Roughly humanoid, they stand an intimidating 6' 7", conveniently Wheatley's own height. Whatever scanning mechanism he used to make these things even gave them little suits. Of course, it's only plated chrome but-

_SHIT! IT SEES ME! Gotta run, gotta hide, gotta get OUT!_

The 'droid wastes no time cornering Craig behind the generator, its vertical buzz-saw roaring in its chest. The scientist's gaze darts around, left, right, everywhere in his range of vision as his neck bulge pops out. He'll never be taken out by such a ludicrous device! _IT'LL HAVE TO CATCH ME FIRST!__  
_

He makes a bound between its legs, but it plants them firmly in front of his face before he can notice. With a comical _TWANG, _Craig is out of commission. The Android's crude two-pronged hands snap up his shirt with indifference, hauling him towards the stairs. It takes laborious steps up the stairs, hauling Craig's form behind it. Its grip only slips once, but that is enough to set it back two or three steps.

Every ounce of effort sends its body into overheat, but it eventually climbs the last step, dropping its baggage unceremoniously to the floor. It takes a few moments to cool, then resumes its journey to the second floor conference hall.

Cave watches happily through the Android's facial camera from a monitor in his office. Ever since he knew about his little _rat problem_, he's been perfecting a method of revenge. Who else could have leaked inside information to Black Mesa? And though it was an itch in his side he couldn't wait to scratch, he had contained himself until he believed everything was set in place. All that he needed now was the victim.

If this Wheatley fellow wasn't so damn annoying, he'd have promoted the guy to Executive Chairman. As it was, his last chairman was a huge disappointment, and the only person he's been able to trust with key information is Caroline. Letting someone else into his life just isn't an option anymore, especially since said person is the most damned annoying son-of-a-bitch Science can throw at him.

Well, no matter. Cave reorders his thoughts as he watches his enemy dragged by the legs through the hall. The Android blares an alarm, and everyone in the vicinity leaps out of its way. He laughs cruelly as he notices an employee almost fall off of the ledge in his haste.

He knows several things for certain at this point:

1. He has his problem dangling by the knees and practically begging for mercy.

2. He has a use for said creature, so it can benefit Science.

3. He has a great, sensational, AMAZING future ahead with this company, what with the increase in Android productivity. Soon, he'll be able to replace everyone with these bots, so he can finally forget about those damned occupational hazards that everyone gets so worked up about. His lab boys don't even know that they're building their own downfall. Ah, such beautiful irony. Heh, iron. It's a pun.

If only he could stop coughing up this damned white ooze.

_Maybe I can use it for Science..._

* * *

**Author's Asides: Have you noticed my writing becoming a little more hectic and unorganized? I swear, I'm not coming apart at the hinges because the S key on my laptop _actually_ broke. I swear that's not the case. I'll even give you some cakes to prove it. See? Spelled with an S. Which I totally didn't have use the copy and paste feature to put there.  
**


	12. Anger, Sorrow, and Crocodile Wrestling

**Author's Asides: Just so y'all know: There will be swearing ahead. I took it down a lot so I could avoid upping the rating, but it will still pack a small punch.**

* * *

_My eyes... Christ, what's wrong with them? Why can't I see... Oogghh..._

Craig blinks repeatedly, shaking his exhaustion off.

A ceiling. Hmm. It's quite high, with pristine white tiles, a whited sepulcher hiding a maggot-infested corpse.

His vision clears slowly but surely as he struggles to take in his surroundings. What happened last night? Did he party too hard or something? The scent of copper and the cloying tang of onions waft everywhere. His tongue dryly smacks the top of his mouth.

He tries to reach up to his face.

Except, he can't quite feel his hands. Nor do his hands make contact with his face. He shifts his gaze from the ceiling.

He sees the rest of his body pinioned to a table, so tightly that his circulation is cut off. In the half second it takes to process all of this, he writhes uncontrollably. He remembers his mad dash for the stairs, and that's about it. Judging by his current location, that was enough to get him captured.

But what does Cave want with him, again? Did he do something to- wait.

_I leaked information to Black Mesa... And Cave must have known it was me..._

Craig's neck pulses dangerously as his torso struggles to break away. He finally interprets the stimuli surrounding him. He's lying supine on a table, in a hospital gown and his head is coated in some sort of gel.

In short, Craig is some sort of sick science experiment fodder.

He keeps pulling and tugging for a long time until he has no strength left to pull. His wrists are bloodied by numerous cuts caused by the tight manacles of fabric holding him down. He can't feel them. He's sweating heavily from the exertion, but cools as the electrolytes evaporate.

Then the silence gets to him. Nobody is around to scream at. His throat is parched anyway and his thoughts are too scrambled to form coherent phrases. Just when he thinks he can't take much more of his numb contemplation, a voice rings out.

He almost preferred the silence.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Craig. How are you feeling?" Cave says, voice ringing.

"Hhaaeeehhh-" Craig starts, his voice cracking before he can form anything understandable.

"I'll tell you, it was hard being patient for this long, waiting for you to calm down and clam up. A whole forty five minutes!"

Forty FIVE!? Forty five minutes of sensory deprivation and he became THIS? No way! "Th... Lie..."

Cave chuckles. "Well, not counting the time it took you to fully wake up. That was a couple of hours you were tugging at those things. Trust me, it won't do you an ounce of good. But you won't be needing your hands when I'm finished, so struggle all you like. Pretend you're wrestling a crocodile, if it makes you feel better."

Craig weakly pulls back again. No pain assails him. ...Why not?

"We're pumping certain gases in here to make you numb. It's still experimental, I think the boys called it Nitric Oxide? Some sort of 'toxin. Anyway, you won't be feeling too much in the next couple of seconds. Shame too, I would have liked to see you scream like a girl- aw, I'm monologuing, aren't I? I bet you're dying to know what this is all about. Well..."

Cave pauses for emphasis as Craig screeches hollowly in frustration.

"Would you quit your yappin'? Alright, here's my plan, sweet and simple. Let's handle this like mature scientists.

"Step one: Irony. Delicious, two-pronged irony. And I mean this quite literally because I'm going to turn you into a personality core. Made of iron! With prongs. Heh."

Craig screams again but his dry throat barely squeaks.

"Step two: Convince your core body that I am the greatest person in the world. Well, if you survive step one."

"And step three, for the hell of it: Repeat step one."

Craig squirms again, but, surprise surprise, his efforts are to no avail.

"So let me see... I'm the one running this thing, so you'll need to give me a few seconds to- aha! I'm done my calculations. Your odds of survival are 12 percent. Huh. Seems a little low. No matter, we've got something else to do."

Craig cocks his head slightly. What else does Cave have planned!?

"This button over here has your name written all over it! Well, technically it says "Initiate Science" on a tiny post it note I just stuck there, but who cares?"

_I'm so screwed..._ Craig thinks, his life flashing before his eyes as he imagines whatever indescribable horror Cave claims to be Science.

Craig knows he has no hope. He knows he's going to probably die here in a few seconds.

But he was never one to be a quitter. He's in the 87th percentile of facility-wide tenacity that all employees are required to get tested. It's like a score for your Science-ability.

Doug scored so poorly he shouldn't have made it in. But Craig knows better than to trust the numbers with that man; he noticed how the man hesitated with each result to a brief questionnaire. He had a feeling Doug was trying to fail, as a way out. He knew how suspicious Douglas could be, given his condition.

_Condition... Condition... Hmm... Why does that word suddenly stick out in my head?_

"Now, I'm a nice guy, Craig. I'm not about to kill you for the hell of it without giving you something to-" Cave bursts into a fit of coughing before he can continue. Craig grimaces as he hears phlegm rumble in the background. _Absolutely disgusting._

"Point... I'm going to give you a choice. Right now; you can apologize for what you did, and beg for my mercy. Do a good enough job and I'll even let you pick out the person to push the button, and I promise I'll follow through. So you get some "last words" and all that with a special someone."

Craig hates begging... Especially to this mongrel. But if it can delay the inevitable, why not? Plus, he's done it before with projects and schemes, and judging by the work escalating on the GLaDOS project, Cave still respects his opinion, somehow.

_Condition... why... could Doug's condition be of- he schizophrenia! He can't push that button, it says so in the Aperture Liability Absolver contract! All those who have mental dysfunctions cannot press legally binding science buttons! If Cave isn't lying, fat chance, but still-_

_But what's option B?_

"Or... And I think this is likely, considering your tenacious percentile ranking, you somehow insult me and I do the honors of killing you right now."

Craig coughs, though only to clear his throat; nothing like the bile-inducing squelches Cave's fits produced. However, when he finishes, he's going to have to have the same sort of taste in his mouth. This is his only shot at survival.

"CAVE! I'm... So... Fucking... S-s... Sorry... I'm... AUUUUGGHHH!" Craig screams and breaks into sobs within the same millisecond. His crocodile tears spring out, flowing over his face as he twists with mock sorrow.

"I was such a d-douche... Sniff, just don't... Don't hurt me... Please just... All... No I was j-just, I'm... Sniff... Rrrgh, I was wrong about everything. And I g-get this... I deserve it... You're so much better and smarter than I am at everything and I lost it and now I'm gonna die and I deserve it b-but..."

Craig couldn't believe the torrent of BS pouring out of his mouth, but every word seemed sincere enough to Cave.

"I just don't wanna d-die... I don't want to die, that's all... Please, please please, if you can find it in your heart to forgive a fuck-up like me... Just don't kill me... Sniff...Th-there..." Craig finishes. "I hope that d-does it..." He finishes, accentuating with a final sniff.

Cave contemplates for a few more seconds. "Oops, forgot to turn the microphone on. I saw ya moving or whatever, but you're gonna have to repeat that. Heh."

Craig's neck shoots out and his eyes bulge dangerously. _ALL THAT FOR NOTHING!? THIS IS SLOW TORTURE!_

_Wait, no, it actually is supposed to be torture. Heh, Cave, if this is all you got, you have to try a little harder._

"I AM REALLY SORRY! OK?" He screams, voice cracking. "I'm t-trying not to lose it, b-but you're scaring me to b-bits..." His weakening voice stumbles, but regains its auditory footing. He screams to himself inside but plasters dopey tears on his face, not all f them disingenuous.

"CAVE! PLEASE DON'T DO THIS! I've got nothing to show for myself! I've got n-nothing! J-just Science! And then I... Ooh, I turned my back on this place for Black f-fucking... I know I don't deserve your p-pity... sniff, but I was- I lost sight of what was important after- sniff... Waaaaahhhhh!"

A few, deadly, gut-wrenching seconds of silence echo, making Craig want to drive his ears in with a peg, despite all of his ranting about not dying. Of all the things to happen in this room so far, this one moment where he can reflect on his insincere apology, is the absolute worst.

"Not buying it. Welp, here goes... NOTHING! Ah _HA_ HA!"

As Cave's fist hits the button, his voice crescendos to little less than a demonic screech.

Electrical pulses fire throughout Craig's body. Though he cannot feel their pain, he does sense his skin vibrating dangerously. He notices two objects embedded in his temples and several objects elsewhere besides as they briefly shake into and out of his limited vision. Everything blinks and flickers out of existence as he stares.

But the only thing Craig is truly feeling is the bloodthirsty desire for revenge. Red hot anger pours through his veins, turning them into an inferno of cherry rage.

_How dare he? HOW DARE HE!? I'LL KILL THAT BASTARD! RRRRARRGHH REHHH ARRGGH HHAHHHHGH RAGGHHH AHHHHHH!_

There's only one thing Cave's miracle pain killer gas can't do: block the hatred coursing through an electrified Craig Preston's heart.


	13. Turret Travels

**Author's Asides: Oh, the joys of laryngitis. IRL I've been afflicted with a similar ailment to Chell, and let me just say this: Silence is hell. I'm a very extroverted person: and not being able to express a myriad of jokes or witty thoughts as soon as they present themselves is incredibly painful. But in the meantime, I wrote you all another chapter.**

**I've also written myself into a rut. I need to go back and pull a few retcons but I don't want to mix up the story, and I'm not at a part that keeps me entertained enough to update frequently. **

**Which would you prefer to see:**

**Important updates that will change the nature of the story (including plot twists and much elaboration)**

**OR**

**More chapters loaded with the content you know you love? **

* * *

"Atlas, I can't keep doing this... Are you sure you can't get me transferred to another department?" Doug carefully whispers, his lips moving only a fraction. He's become increasingly better at this near silent, invisible communication: any employee that wants to avoid mysteriously disappearing has to.

"I've got my hands tied. Everyone is working on GLaDOS now, no exceptions. You might be able to get off of physical adaptations and onto the software but I don't... look, Cave's just-"

Atlas never gets to finish this lofty statement, however, because its subject barges through the doors.

"Hello, lab boys! How have you been?" Cave says, veritably strutting into Doug's workroom, though in a wheelchair it's hard to strut. Douglas pales ever so slightly, one of the last remnants of reflex he has had yet to train away.

"C-cave! I've been well, h-how about you?" Atlas stammers, praying that Cave didn't hear their earlier chat regarding the strange power surge yesterday and their positions in the company.

"Aw, who cares 'bout me? It's not important, but hell- I feel ready to wrangle an elephant! Atlas, Doug, how about you? I doubt you two're ready to wrestle; doesn't seem to be your thing."

Doug's breathing quickens as Cave's muscular hand strikes his back good-naturedly. Cave's always been a card, true, but lately he's been forcing the bill a lot more than he'd like to.

"I'm alright sir..." He barely manages to croak out. His constricted throat squeals in protest.

"OK then, that's the formalities out of the way. Now get back to work, I'm just making a few observations."

With a nod, the two scurry off to the computing storage devices. GLaDOS's information is all kept in huge, blinking towers within the whitewashed walls. A trained scientist has to go in routinely to tweak things, as well as monitor the temperature amongst other trivial things. Aperture's definition of trained, however, means that you've taken the zero-second introductory course. The room is mostly full from floor-to-ceiling, but there is one glass doorway and an empty space with one lone counter-top and poster to speak of. Currently Douglas is building an image format inside this very room, in this very alcove.

Douglas's job is to create an encryption and decryption system so that scientists can send visual data about GLaDOS through audio transitions, rather than emails. The only good part about this job, something it already took weeks to campaign for, is the abundance of radios. So, at least, now Aperture has music. Only one, bland smooth jazz song, but a song nonetheless.

The outright painful downside that he overlooked in favor of boosting record-low morale is that he can see GLaDOS at any time of day, and all of the things people do to it. He's seen people flip it off, smack it around, spout nasty expletives and generally abuse the thing. And it's not even awake yet, just a dinky little DOS chugging away at some unseen numbers. Doug feels partially responsible, what with being one of the interns who worked on artificial intelligence, but also because he sees it all and never steps in. But who is he to leave this little den, this rare haven of solace for someone harmlessly relieving their tensions on an inanimate object? He understands the need to let go of it all, perhaps better than any of GLaDOS's unseen tormentors do.

He's definitely grown accustomed to this life, living and eating and sleeping in a little room, working for some goal he knows doesn't exist. But he does this every day anyway. There's nothing else to live for.

He begins typing out a strand of code. He averages about one per day, simply claiming to be fixing bugs and testing its progress the rest of the time. No, the real challenge lies in deciding what to transmit. He could send every Aperture employee plans, documents, memos... the truth.

And it takes every fiber of his being to hold onto it anymore.

* * *

Cave's wheelchair makes clicking noises along the ground as it passes over different bits of metal. One little sound pings right after the other as he rolls the chair along. Employees rush past, attempting to pay no heed to the man aside from routine courtesy, which he ignores. His face is set into one of its hostile stares. He's clearly lost in a train of thought he'd rather dismount.

His rolling stride brings him closer to the ramp to the lower floors. The ramp itself doesn't bother coming any closer, damn lazy thing. He finally rolls around to it, prepared to speed as fast as he can to reach his destination: Craig. The man is still restrained in the stark conference room, most likely unconscious, but surprisingly alive. Hungry, cold, missing a huge portion of his brain, but alive. None of those things matter to Science, though.

He zooms down the ramp, letting the incredible pace and wind speed whip at his face. The sensation, apart from cleansing his foul mood and irritating his eyes, helps him achieve focus: namely about his current velocity. With enormous effort, he plants his hands on the padded spokes of his wheels. Rubber digs into his callused flesh as the metal wheels emit dangerous sparks. He nearly flips, but his iron hard determination puts the stop on that fairly quickly.

Mercifully, he avoids crashing into a rusting brown door. The area is kept disheveled on purpose, so that people will ignore it if they happen along. Being one of the areas strictly accessed by a ramp and third tier pass-code helps keep it secure.

He punches in the obscenely long code without looking at it right away. The light indicator blips red twice.

He swears under his breath before hitting the 34-character code AGAIN. The light indicator blips green once, and Cave all but throws the door open.

More muttered curses flare up as he wheels in and slams the entrance to his secure room. It's not very glamorous, just another observation room connected to a wide, paneled conference room, minus cushy chairs and projector screens.

Craig is asleep, despite the concentration of adrenal vapors. Perhaps they lost their effect on him? No, there's categorically no chance a brain mapping could rewire an endocrine system.

Or maybe it did? No matter.

His chair slides effortlessly to the observation window. Craig snores peacefully in the chamber, for how long; Cave can't say. He turns to his computer monitor and scrolls for any updates, but having no GUI on this device nor reliable camera feed, he's stuck watching without knowing much more.

His finger depresses the intercom button.

"WAKE UP, CRAIG!"

The man in question bolts awake, his eyelids slicing open within milliseconds as his body tenses. Every sound is painfully clear and poignant- until he remembers where he is and what little fear he possessed dissipates. He doesn't fear that which he can comprehend, and there's no reason to make things worse.

"Good morning, Mr. Johnson."

Cave grins to himself. Whatever happened during the personality upload has drained Craig, quite literally, of everything that made him a challenge. Every visitation begins similarly, with a "Good Afternoon" when Craig is already awake, a "Good Evening" when Cave returns multiple times in a day and the rare "Good Morning" whenever he is interrupted from sleep.

The man has grown accustomed to silence; content to dwell in his thoughts but equally obliged to conversation. He'd make a very good test subject, if he were worth that much effort.

"How are you feeling?" the question is empty, devoid of Cave's ordinarily morbid enthusiasm.

"Still alive."

"...Still? What makes you so sure of anything anymore?"

"I can feel pain with the same clarity. Death would eliminate such practices."

"And time? What about that?"

"I am not confused about the passage of time, I simply lack measurements. One can measure temperature by 'hot' or 'cold' but invariably the preciseness is lost without kelvins. I understand that principle, and so it does not concern me with knowing the exact number, but rather, the general concept."

Cave rubs his temples. Craig was such a different person with all of the anger stripped from his body. But today that anger was going to come back.

"Why do you think I have returned today?"

"To visit me."

"But _why_ am I visiting you? Entertainment? Science? Do you know?"

Craig shifts uncomfortably, racing for some sort of logical answer to assuage his fears. None came.

"Science. That seems most likely."

"Well, then. Science it is. I found something of yours, you see."

"I do not recall losing objects beyond my mobility."

"What about your memory? Could you have lost that?"

"...It's entirely feasible, yes."

"Or perhaps you didn't, and I simply decided to tell you such. Would you ever know which?"

Craig squirms a little more. _There_ it was, Cave's sweet revenge. Only such things as paradoxes could scare him, anymore, and Cave was inclined to drink every ounce of fear he could elicit.

"I would not be aware in either case," he squeaked, "but since that is the nature of your puzzle, it can be understood... on principle." This seemed to calm the spasms lurching through his arms and legs.

Drat.

"Well, if you insist on thinking that an answer cannot be truly ascertained, I'll tell you. I've got your answer, right in my room. The nature of the puzzle is for you to figure it out. How do you like them apples?"

He went on watching Craig struggle in his fleshy prison and in his mind. He smiles as the man's eyes bulge a little based on muscle memory and his neck does something similar. But the struggles are no longer rabid and wild, merely the echoes of a dying man, not so different from Cave himself.

"I MUST KNOW!" he cries, trying to reach upwards for the first time in days. "TELL ME!"

Cave smirks, taking his good ol' sweet time as the desperation escalates in his victim.

"Oh... you know... just some piece of mind. Your mind. Get it?"

For seconds that terrible expression riddles Craig's face, until releasing and melting the brilliance as if from a cryogenic freezer. "You have a piece of my mind. This implies your previous statement to be correct regarding my fractured memory."

"...Maybe," Cave responds, giggling internally at the following reaction. "Alright, calm down. I DO have a piece of your mind."

Craig stops hyperventilating.

"How can you?"

"I took it from you. Would you like to see it?"

"One's brain is made up of one million or more synaptic firings... an amalgamation of thought exchanged by calcium ions. You cannot take a piece from it if it is constructed from energy."

"SCIENCE can, and I assure you, it has. Now, don't take this all the wrong way: Your brain is useless anyway. It can't possibly know anything-" he threw that last part in for good measure, "and it never will. How the brain works is a mystery to all of us quote 'normal' endquote people. But Science understands, and Science is going to help the two of us. Right?"

"...Y-yes sir... Mr. Johnson..."

"Good!"

With that, Cave withdrew a red device from a draw cabinet. It was spherical, with a red optic: one of the newest models designed and created entirely by Douglas. He found that to be ironic, that Craig's pupil had built the device which had enslaved and chained his anger.

It emitted a host of screaming, grunting and otherwise frustrated noises. This device, filled (somehow) with raw emotion and hatred, was a breakthrough in Science. It churned its handles, ripping and tearing for purchase in Cave's mortal flesh. It was out to kill, but in no position to do so as it swung wildly in all directions.

"Who is to say a person's soul isn't real? Who is to claim that people's souls aren't physical? Here's the proof, everything that made you, you, is sitting in the palm of my hand. If only we could make it think, only make it obey... then we'd have our breakthrough. But it isn't easy to make a man listen to you."

Craig doesn't respond intelligibly, still stuck on the first paradox, using every ounce of thought just to process proof of the existence of a soul.

"I- hhheeeehhhh oooohh..."

"But maybe that's because I didn't do a good enough job the first time. Maybe the part of you that lets you think is still stuck in there someplace. Now, I may have gotten this tech from the psychoanalysts up the hall, but that doesn't mean I've got any idea what to do with it. That's where Science is gonna kick in. So! Let's just do a recap- Your SOUL is (probably) tangible, and I have control of it, and you still know how to think, so I'll just need to borrow that real quick in a guaranteed-deadly and painful procedure, and we'll be even."

Craig grumbles, just under his breath, but Cave's got a few good microphones set up for such an occasion. "...What was that last bit, again?"

"You still know how to think? That's what I said, isn't it?

Craig blanches. How screwed up could his mind really be? How could he ever tell what was reality and what wasn't? How could anything ever be true if nothing was? _Why did this have to be a conversation about meta-physics?_

"Well, if it means all that much to you, I would like to take a second whack at the ol' 'brain-mapping' thing. I'm going to- actually, I'm going to just hold that thought." An incessant buzzing was ringing in his ear; undoubtedly the cheap telephone behind him.

Whatever call had been sent directly here was guaranteed to be from Caroline. Nobody else- absolutely nobody else- even knew the number, even less his location. He picks up the weathered plastic immediately, gallantly drawing it up to his ear.

"Caroline... I'm not going to lie to you, this is a bad time."

"...For both of us, it seems. There's a situation with the new turret redemption line, and-."

"Enlighten me, I'm busy."

"I need you to give clearance so I can shut the whole thing down."

"...Caroline, what could possibly going on that requires you to hinder the Science?"

She sighs graciously, creating a static effect over the shoddy connection. "The work from the SoaDOS system, that they told you would get deleted?"

"What about it?" He snaps, losing patience.

"It's stuck in something else's mainframe. It keeps turret hopping, switching from body to-"

"And I care, why exactly? Caroline, this is a techie thing. I'm a little busy exacting deadly revenge, not to mention I don't _care_ if there's leftover programming running amok! Get the lab boys, not me."

"It's escalated beyond that, sir. What I'm trying to say is that it's beyond our control, because it's become self-aware."

Cave blinks. Once. Twice. Three times for good measure. He'd check his ears, but he's got other priorities. "Then isolate its current body somehow, faster than it can redistribute itself. Get one of those... uh, new-fangled vents the boys are always on about."

"W...We've tried, sir."

_I always have to do everything..._ "Come on, think, Caroline! Isn't there anybody else who can resolve this?"

"No, the turret got away from the line. It went up the tube and we don't have any idea where its headed."

"Isn't it in a defective turret?"

"Not anymore. It absorbed itself into a working, _fully-loaded_ one, and we still have no idea where it's headed. We can't track the signal anymore, it shut off all connections after the transfer. We're debating shutting down the system, do I have clearance?"

"Just shut it off, I'm BUSY!"

"It's also going to-"

"I DON'T CARE WHAT ELSE IT'LL DO! If it won't help science, you won't do it, so hurry it up! DON'T MAKE ME REPEAT MYSELF!"

"...Yes, sir, Mr. Johnson..." she intones, devoid of her typical pep. The lights flicker and go off, leaving Cave in pitch blackness. Above, he hears metal scrape metal, a sure sign of the pneumatic tubes turning off.

Cave mumbles a curse before replacing the phone. The red button flickers as a backup-generator from somewhere else clicks on. Dim light returns to his haven.

_I wanted to do this noooooooooooooow... why did she have to- hmm... I guess I could use the backup power. I wonder if it would have additional effects? Well... why not? Cave ol' boy, you genius you! I love referring to myself in third-person! Wait... Cave likes referring to himself in third person! Who-hoo! And with the obligatory rehashing out of the way, he-e-ere I GO!_


End file.
